


England Would Fall

by ecrichard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:29:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 66,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecrichard/pseuds/ecrichard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs. Hudson is attacked. Sherlock is a suspect. As he sits in the cell, paralyzed with fear and regret, he remembers how the woman he calls landlady was more of a mother than his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John had insisted. He hadn't wanted to stop, especially after such a tremendous victory, but John forced food upon him. The murderer, that nasty man with the ragged scar across his cheek, was behind bars and that couple's murder was finally solved. The satisfaction of knowing that he'd done it again was more than enough to fill him up. He certainly didn't need the plate of microwaved potatoes and eggs that sat in front of him.

"We're not going until you eat some of that," John said in between mouthfuls of lasagne. Four small slices of bread and three pats of butter-he certainly wasn't worried about being in fighting shape. It was useless to consume so much. Sherlock took a small bite and let the rubbery taste of the scrambled eggs slip around his tongue. He swallowed the acrid concoction to get John to move on from his maternal naggings.

"Greg invited us to his housewarming."

Sherlock laughed. He'd recently bought a home to share with his fiancee whom Sherlock had informed him was already cheating on him. Greg didn't want to listen to him but it was clear from her frequent manicures and recent change in perfume. What was the use in going to a party for a home that would be sold before the next year?

"You can go," Sherlock said as he took a sip of water.

John shook his head. "You're coming. I went to the last party on my own. Not again."

"Oh stop being so dramatic."

John gestured wildly with his soiled fork. "You do realize that they all don't like us as much as you think, right? I could have melted from all those glares."

"All the more reason not to go," Sherlock said.

John pointed towards the plate. "Eat your food."

"Not hungry."

John took a long gulp of his lager. It was his third drink of the night. The case had been a hard one for him. Sherlock hadn't noticed at first that John kept leaving the room as they examined the bodies. They never spoke of it but Lestrade told him later that it upset him to see the animals so badly mutilated. It didn't bother Sherlock-a body is a body. He'd never taken John for one so easily swayed by something so mundane as a housepet. Either way, if a few pints of lager was what it took to get him back on board, then it was worth the inevitable drunken ramblings he'd endure as the night dragged on.

"Oh," John said, "I have a date tomorrow so I can't do the autopsy with you."

They were to examine a stabbing victim from a case that had run cold a few weeks back. "Cancel it," Sherlock said.

"No," John said, "I've already cancelled on her twice. You go without me."

"I can't," Sherlock said. "Molly's on holiday and the M.E. said he'd only do it if you came along."

"Then reschedule," John said.

Sherlock examined his friend's face.

Lips narrowed.

Eyebrows slanted slightly.

His muscles tensed around the glass.

Anger. Anger at what?

Ah. Of course.

"If I go to the party…" Sherlock began.

John shook his head incredulously. "You'd go to the party?

"If I go...will you reschedule?"

John looked out the window with a bemused expression. "You'd really go to the party?"

Sherlock didn't have time for the guessing game. "Yes," he said.

"Fine," John said. "But we have to stay for as long as I want, understand?"

He couldn't hide his disgust. This trade was wildly uneven but he needed John to do his work. He choked back the bile. "Yes."

"Brilliant," John said.

John's phone shook violently on the table. It was one in the morning. Both of them stared at the phone in confusion. "Who would be calling…" John began.

John grabbed the phone and peered at the ID. "Just Greg."

As he spoke, John's face grew paler. He hardly said anything at first, just clips and chirps at the man on the other end.

"How?"

"Where?"

"Jesus…"

"Of course."

"Yes, we will."

He took the phone away from his face and it was a different man than the one who'd answered the call. His entire face had fallen. Every muscle had lost its power to hide his devastation.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

John gulped back the emotion that rose in his chest. "Mrs. Hudson was attacked."

He felt the adrenaline course through his body. "Attacked?"

"Yeah, um, she was stabbed. They...they took her to the hospital." John drifted away as he spoke. Sherlock pounded the table with his fist to refocus him.

"John? Is she…?" He couldn't even form the words. It was too painful to even consider.

John's flickered over lifelessly. "No," he said, "but they said it didn't look good."

Sherlock jumped from his chair and raced for the door.

"Where are you going?" John shouted from the chair.

He didn't have to answer. It was obvious. He had to go to her. He had to be there.

His muscles barely coordinated with each other as he slapped the door open and stammered out onto the sidewalk. His entire head swirled as he threw a hand up for a cab. Every breath seemed tighter than the last.

She had been attacked.

The woman had no enemies.

It was his fault, certainly.

He bit his tongue to keep from screaming. Where were the cabs. Why wouldn't anyone help him?

Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder and he winced in surprise.

"Just me," John said, dazed.

"We have to get to her," Sherlock said.

John moved a few feet over and put his hands up as well.

Out of the fog, a cab appeared and the pair barreled inside. Sherlock couldn't stop shaking as the cab moved at what felt like a drugged snail's pace. He berated the cabbie to run stop signs and race through red lights but the louder he shouted the slower they moved.

In pure exhaustion he gave up.

He had to be there. He had to see her one last time.

"We're coming," he whispered to himself. "Wait for us."


	2. Chapter 2

John led the way to the Emergency Room. Sherlock's mind was fogged and clouded as they stepped out of the cab. He hadn't felt this way in years. He followed mindlessly behind John and mirrored his every movement. He knew that if stopped for even a moment he would collapse.

John gestured to a seat and he dutifully sat down in a heap. John then raced to the intake desk and asked a series of questions that Sherlock was too rattled to understand. He needed details. He needed information. It was the oil that lubricated his mind. Without it he was just as ignorant as the rest of the world and it infuriated him.

He tapped his knee wildly just to keep his blood moving. John was talking to them for far too long. Children ran in front of him and screamed at the top of their lungs out of pure boredom. Their shrieks rattled in his brain sent him further inside of himself. He wanted to drift away. He wanted to not feel. It hurt so badly to be so scared.

John turned with a blank expression and walked towards Sherlock.

"What did they say?"

He collapsed into the chair. "She's in surgery."

Logical. Stab wounds would require that.

"But they needed to resuscitate her on the ride over."

The look on John's face gave the words a grim tone. He looked at John expectantly.

"That means she stopped breathing at some point. They didn't sound optimistic at the desk."

Sherlock groaned quietly and batted his eyes away from John. If he didn't listen then he wouldn't have to hear anymore.

John touched him on the arm but he pulled away. "Do you want to wait?"

He nodded.

* * *

**1984**

The weather had finally cleared and the first sunny day of spring had broken through the doldrums of winter. Martha Hudson cleaned the last of the dinner dishes from the night before and gazed out at the wisps of clouds that floated over the blossoming trees. It would be her first spring without her little Dorothy and the thought of a flower picking and apples pies without her little girl brought a tear to her eye. It had been almost a year but just the utterance of her name still tightened her chest.

She saw so much less of the boy across the street since Dorothy passed. For months he'd traipsed her hallways in his quiet somber way while her little girl laughed and led him around. It was a joy to have him around.

Ever since the accident, she'd only seen him as he got into the car in the morning for school. His mother would occasionally stand at the door and wave goodbye but, recently, there had been less and less of her. Now it was the lanky silhouette of Gregory Holmes that haunted the front seat of the car. They'd never shared more than a few words and she was perfectly content with that.

That was what made the sudden appearance of the small Holmes boy in the front yard so unusual. He was dressed in his school uniform with a book in hand. With one uncoordinated motion, he jammed his foot into the side of the large maple in their yard in a fruitless attempt to climb it. The tip of his shoe got hardly centimeter into the bark and promptly slipped out. He tried again and took a leap in the hopes that it would somehow propel him to the top but it only succeeded in dropping him on the ground in a heap.

She could hear him groan from across the street. The mother in her wanted to rush over but she'd been chastised by the Holmes enough times to stay out of their business. She hovered over the phone to call Evelyn, his mother, if he stayed down too long.

Sherlock wriggled on the grass and rubbed his aching leg just as the front door opened. At first she was sure it was Mycroft home on a school break but the bellow quickly cued her into Gregory's presence. She grimaced in anticipation.

He marched over to Sherlock and grabbed him by the arm. In one swift movement he pulled the seven year old to his feet. He gestured at his son's clothes which were surely soiled from the dirt and grass and Sherlock bowed his head.

"What is wrong with you?" he shouted.

"I was just playing," Sherlock said.

"What have I told you? Jesus. Are you stupid or just an idiot?"

Sherlock didn't move.

"Get inside," he shouted.

Martha held her breath in anticipation. She wanted so badly to jump through the window and grab the boy herself. When Sherlock didn't get up, she moved her hand over the phone, ready to call the police herself.

He grabbed Sherlock's arm and tugged him so hard and so fast that the boy fell to the ground instantly.

She gasped. "Get up," she whimpered.

Sherlock cried as his father pulled him up again. "Stop crying!" Gregory shouted.

Martha watched as Sherlock scampered back to the house and clutched his arm. Gregory looked out towards to street to see if there were any witnesses to his outburst. Satisfied that he had gone unseen, he shut the door behind him.

* * *

The next morning she waited for them to leave. All night she could barely sleep. All Martha could hear were the shouts and the screams from inside the house as Gregory and Evelyn fought loudly. The light from Sherlock's room on the second floor shone bright until far into the night and didn't turn off until nearly dawn.

Evelyn wasn't at the door that morning. Sherlock held his books in his left hand with his right held tight against his body. As he maneuvered towards the car she saw him wince in pain. It was injured.

She could have killed Gregory right there. Her mind went blank with rage as he didn't even bat an eye as his son struggled just to open the car door with his hurt arm.

"Hurry up!" he shouted from the front seat. Sherlock laid all his books on the ground and used his left hand to open the door. He then gathered them all together and placed them gently on the seat. The production went completely unnoticed by his father.

The behavior was escalating. Whenever Sherlock came around her house, she'd always seen small hints of what his father was capable of doing. There would be the occasional oval bruise around his wrist or at the scruff of his neck but it came so infrequently that she didn't put the pieces together. One day, when Dorothy somehow convinced the boy to swim in their backyard, she saw a large welt on his back. It was the size of a man's hand and she knew instantly where it had come from. She pulled Sherlock aside and asked him about it and the boy looked more terrified than anyone she had seen before. He adamantly denied any insinuation that it was his father's doing and insisted that he'd fallen at the playground.

But it had always been in private. Yes there was shouting that bled through their windows and onto the street but it was always under the guise of privacy that the Holmes aggression was contained. This time it was in public. Anyone could have seen.

* * *

Sherlock came home with another family from school. No mother met him at the door and his father was at work. Martha took her opportunity. The moment Sherlock stepped out of the car, she ran outside.

"Sherlock!" she shouted.

The boy winced at the sound of his name.

"It's Mrs. Hudson," she said.

He turned around with a blankly pleasant expression.

"I made dessert. Would you like some?"

He looked towards his own house and then back at her. His shoulders were rounded and tensed at the decision. "I'll call your mother. Come inside. I made your favorite."

Call his mother. She'd rather eat a bag of nails but it was what made him begin to walk over.

He still cradled his arm as he walked. It was nestled against his chest and he desperately tried to hold four textbooks in his little left hand. She grabbed the books from him as he neared. "Let me help," she said.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

They hadn't spoken much since Dorothy's accident. In fact they hadn't spoken much since she'd known him. There was something oddly endearing about the boy who barely communicated with those around him. It was his eyes. They were always looking, always observing and he remembered everything that was told to him. It was so exceedingly unusual that she couldn't help but want to be around him.

"What did you make?" he asked.

She gestured him inside of the kitchen. "Apple custard. And strawberry lemonade."

His little face lit up. "Apple custard?"

She smiled. "Your favorite, right?"

He nodded enthusiastically.

She placed the bowl in front of him and he instinctively went to grab the spoon with his right arm but yelped in pain.

"Love, what happened to your arm?"

His eyes raced as he forced himself to concoct a story on the spot. "Fell down," he said. "I was trying to climb a tree at school."

Half truths. He was a boy full of bits of the truth surrounded by lies. "I see," she said. "May I look at it?"

He turned his body from her as she stepped forward. "I'm okay," he said.

"I believe you," she said. "I just want to make sure you didn't break it."

He felt reassured that his story had checked out and let her come close to examine his arm as he sloppily shoved custard into his mouth with left hand.

The arm was filled with bruises and his wrist was swollen. She touched the pinkish skin at the forearm and Sherlock shouted in pain. His wrist was fractured, if not broken. "Sherlock, did you show your mother your arm?"

He shook his head. "She was asleep."

"I see," she said. She didn't bother to ask about his father.

Dorothy had hurt her arm when she was seven years old after a run-in with a nasty swing set. For some reason, Martha had kept the bandage and sling the doctor had given her.

She draped the sling around the back of his neck and slipped his injured hand through the opening. His limp arm rested on the fabric. "Does that feel better?"

He nodded. "Much better."

"Tell your father that school gave it to you, all right?"

Sherlock didn't need to be prodded to lie. It was second nature for him to bend the truth when Gregory was concerned. "Can I keep it?"

She rubbed his back and gave him a kiss on the head. "Of course, love. Of course."

* * *

**2013**

It was taking too long.

What was taking so long?

"John?" he asked.

John looked up from his magazine with bleary eyes. "What?"

"Ask again," he said. He pushed down on his knees to keep them from shaking. Why couldn't he stop shaking? So human. So ordinary. Control, Sherlock. Gain control.

"They'll come out," John said. "Just be patient."

Patient? How could he be patient at a time like this?

He kneaded his hands together just to give them something to do. Stabbings were deadly. He'd seen enough of them to know that they were unpredictable and caused irreparable damage. Mrs. Hudson was not young. The probability of her surviving without lasting damage…

Stop.

Stop doing this.

"Sherlock?" John said.

Stop thinking about it.

She will be fine. Of course she will. Mrs. Hudson is always fine. She's always there.

"Sherlock!" John hissed.

He forced his eyes to focus on John who was staring at the entrance to the hospital.

Lestrade was there with his head bowed and flanked by officers.

"What is this?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know," John said. "Maybe they have news."

Lestrade came over to Sherlock and sat down next to him as the officers stood back a few feet, ready to pounce. "I need you to stand up."

It sounded like gibberish. He surely wasn't asking him to stand. "What?"

"Please. Don't make me do it for you."

"What is this?"

John stood up first. "Greg, what's going on?"

"Sherlock," Lestrade said. "Stand up."

He did as he was told, his mind still reeling at the request.

As soon as he stood, two officers came on either side of him. One wrenched his arm back behind him and he felt the cold sting of the cuffs pinch his skin. Lestrade spoke in a weary tone. "Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you for the attempted murder of Martha Hudson…"

"What?" he shouted.

John stepped forward. "This is ridiculous."

Lestrade put a hand out. "John, please…"

He couldn't hear the words. The cuffs clicked into place and before he knew it he was being pushed towards the exit. John shouted with Lestrade in the waiting room but it all faded to white noise.


	3. Chapter 3

John could hardly stand. As he stared into Lestrade's eyes, he couldn't help but want to kill him. As hard as he tried, the pain and the agony of seeing Sherlock being rushed out of the hospital and into the squad car cut him deep.

"What the hell is this?" he kept saying.

Lestrade blinked back his own outrage. "His fingerprints are everywhere in there. On the knife. They found his blood at the scene, John."

John clenched his fists. "But I was with him. I was with him all night."

It was then he remembered that they'd been separated for a short time. As they neared the end of the investigation, with one small piece of the puzzle left to solve, Sherlock had run off as he was wont to do. Whenever inspiration struck, it wasn't unusual for Sherlock to hop in a cab or skirt around a building without explanation. One moment John was with him a few blocks from the flat as they followed a lead and the next Sherlock had run off. He'd gone into the shop and grabbed a tea.

It had only been twenty minutes.

He couldn't have done it.

No….

Lestrade shook his head in devastation. "I know," he said. "I don't want to believe it either."

He didn't dare tell Lestrade that he'd been separated from Sherlock for any period of time. "He'd never lay a hand on her."

"I know," Lestrade said sorrowfully, "but I have to do my job. The evidence is overwhelming."

John didn't know where to go. He stood, impotent and weak, in the middle of the waiting room praying that Sherlock would come walking through the door and proclaim it all a laugh. Silly John, he would say, you didn't think this was real, did you? They'd chortle at John's gullibility and Mrs. Hudson would sashay out intact.

But yet there he stood. The world grew dimmer and more real by the minute. It was all a terrible nightmare.

"What's going to happen to him?" John asked.

Lestrade sighed. "John, he'll be fine."

He could barely hold back the tears. "Fine? Did you see him?"

"John…"

"Couldn't you have waited 'til we knew if she was even going to survive? Why would you do that to him?"

"I was just doing my job," Lestrade said.

"Doing your job…" John muttered. "He's a human being. You can't just treat him any way you please."

"You don't think I know that," Lestrade said.

John shook his head in disbelief. "I can't understand how you could think he's done this."

* * *

Martha sat in her study with a worn copy of Tale of Two Cities nestled in her hands. The ladies at the book club had chosen it in an ambitious bout of intellectualism but she couldn't get past the first chapter. As the evening wore on, she waited for the familiar hum of her husband's car as it whirred up the street. Ever since Dorothy's accident he'd been spending more and more time at the office. She couldn't much blame him but it was a long lonely night just her and the monotonous tones of Charles DIckens.

As she forcibly transported herself back to the 19th century, there was a loud booming knock on the door. It was nearly dark and she wasn't expecting visitors. The sudden noise sent her heart pounding in her ears.

"Mrs. Hudson, open up!" the voice bellowed.

Gregory Holmes.

Bollocks.

She steeled herself as she walked to the door. There was no telling what fresh hell he was ready to bestow on her this evening.

As she opened the door, she saw the cowering Sherlock in front of his father. Gregory's hands were wrapped around his shoulders and she could see the white of his knuckles as he dug his hands into the boy's skin.

"What is it, love?" Martha asked.

Sherlock didn't speak at first.

"Talk, boy," Gregory said.

Sherlock took a few tentative steps forward and then jutted out his hand. In his little fingers were the sling and the bandages she'd given to him. It was then she noticed that his injured wrist was back against his body, pinned against his quivering hip.

"I'm sorry I took this," he said.

"Took them?" she said with surprise.

He nodded.

"The boy said he stole them from you. Taking supplies from a dead little girl. Disgraceful," Gregory said.

The mention of Dorothy sent her blood boiling. "Pardon?" she snapped.

"The boy took her sling. And now he's returning it."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I am sorry."

Mrs. Hudson put her hands on her hips. "He didn't take it," she said. "I gave it to him."

Sherlock looked up at her with wide panicked eyes.

"You did?" Gregory said, his voice layered with suspicion and anger.

"His arm was hurt. It was only right."

He squeezed Sherlock's shoulder even harder. "Why did you lie, boy?"

Martha couldn't figure why he was saying such things. It wasn't until she saw his big blue eyes begin to water that she remembered what she had told him.

"Tell your father that school gave it to you, all right?"

How could she have been so stupid?

"I told him to tell you that school had given it to him. I shouldn't told him that. It's my fault. Don't blame Sherlock."

Gregory's eyes narrowed to slits. "Why would you tell him that? Why would you tell my own son to lie to me?"

She gulped in terror. For the first time she was truly afraid that she could be the victim of Gregory herself. "I thought it would be easier."

He took a step forward and got in her personal space. She tried to back away but there was nowhere left to go. Her entire body was plastered against the closed door. "Do not speak to him about me. It is not your business."

She gestured towards his wrist. "His bone is fractured. He needs medical attention."

"If you watched my son as carefully as you watched your own maybe…"

He didn't have have to finish his sentence. Her mind went blank with rage. Martha reached for the doorknob and swung the door open. "Get off of my property," she hissed.

"Gladly," he said.

She slammed the door in his face.

* * *

Sherlock struggled to not begin to weep as he heard the policemen chatter about him in the distance. Anderson and Donovon had paced back and forth in front of the questioning room and would peer in, their eyes leering far longer than necessary. No one had said a word to him since they'd brought him inside. For all he knew, Mrs. Hudson was dead and he would never know.

Where was John?

Where was anyone?

Anderson swung the door open and walked in triumphantly. He had a lecherous smile across his contorted face. With more force than necessary, he dropped a file onto the table and let it slide haphazardly on the smooth surface.

"Are you questioning me?" Sherlock asked, carefully monitoring his voice to keep it from breaking.

"We had to pull straws," he said, "and I won."

"Wonderful," Sherlock said with a sigh.

Anderson pulled the seat out and slid in with joy. "So why'd you do it?"

Sherlock bit his lip to keep from shouting at him. "This isn't standard procedure."

"Screw standard procedure. You always did, eh?"

He let the anger and worry die down until he could speak clearly. "How is she?"

"Who? Mrs. Hudson? Why do you care?"

"I care," he said quietly.

Anderson opened the file folder to reveal a bloodied knife. "These photos beg to differ."

He felt nauseous as Anderson flipped through the images of Mrs. Hudson's flat drenched in blood. Her tables were turned and her daughter's lamp had been smashed against the ground. She would be devastated to see it broken. "Take them away," he said.

"Not so proud now?"

He had to turn his head but the nausea still rose. He felt his entire body grow cold as he willed himself not to be sick in front of Anderson, of all people. "I didn't hurt her."

Anderson looked down at the photos and then back at Sherlock with a menacing glare.

"I don't believe you."


	4. Chapter 4

He couldn't think. His mind was wrapped in emotion and it obscured every bit of information he desperately tried to grasp at. All of his life he had worked so hard to eliminate the pain of feeling. His father had taught him that the only reason that he got upset was because he let the situation take power of him. If he took control of himself and accepted the world as it was then he could live on a higher plane where none of the anxieties of everyday life would touch him.

Anderson sat with his face moving wildly from joy to wicked excitement. The pleasure he derived from his questioning sickened Sherlock. He heard the words that came out of the man's mouth but let them process on a purely linguistic level. The less meaning he gave to them, the faster the process would be done.

"Where were you at 9:10 pm?" Anderson asked.

"With John."

Anderson tapped his head with his pencil. "Mm, think. I know you know this up in there."

"What are you talking about?"

Anderson grabbed a photo from the bottom of the stack. It was a poorly illuminated security camera shot from what appeared to be a bank. "We examined the area all around. You were by yourself."

Had he left?

It was certainly possible. They were at the tail end of the investigation and he needed to examine the ATMs on Caldwell. John certainly must have followed.

But John said he had a headache.

He hadn't even asked John if he'd wanted to come…

"That doesn't prove anything," he said, exhausted.

Anderson stabbed the photo pointedly with his pen. "This bank is a block away from your flat. Time of attack was not five minutes after this photo was taken."

"Still doesn't prove-"

Anderson leaned forward. "It proves enough."

Sherlock rubbed his temple to stave off the migraine that crept up his spine. It was ludicrous. There was nothing but traces of evidence scattered through to connect him. Surely they didn't think he was capable of something like this.

He was so tired. The case had kept him up for the last two nights and it had been days since he'd had a proper meal. Sitting in the brightly lit room with his wrist clamped against the chair only served to exacerbate his exhaustion.

"She practically raised me," he said with a thready voice.

"That's going to play real well with the jury. I'm sure a few of 'em will want to hang you for that."

Enough.

Sherlock propped himself up and looked Anderson dead in the eyes. Their years of petty comments and off-handed insults had all come to a head at this moment.

"Anderson," Sherlock pleaded.

"What?"

He couldn't help but tear up out of pure exhaustion. "I didn't do this. Please, you have to believe me."

For a moment he thought that he'd changed Anderson's mind and somehow softened him. For an instant the sneer left his face and he looked at a man he'd known for nearly ten years.

"No," Anderson said. "You're not doing your little mind tricks on me. I know you did this. I don't know why, but I know you did."

Sherlock looked at him with pleading eyes. "Anderson…"

"Shut up. No one's coming to help you."

Sherlock fell back into the chair, defeated. He bowed his head and let the emotions take hold like a virus.

"Jesus…" Anderson said in disgust as he slid a box of tissues across the table. Without looking up Sherlock grabbed a handful and shielded his eyes from Anderson.

The door opened and Sherlock assumed it was another spiteful officer ready to rip him a new one. He stayed against the chair and forced himself to think of anything but the blood soaked carpet of Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"Sherlock?"

The voice sounded oddly familiar. He peered out of the corner of his eye and saw the blonde hair and gentle smile of a Watson. "Why are you here?" he asked.

She grabbed a seat and pulled it next to him. "John called," she whispered. "He said you were here."

"John called?"

Harry rubbed his back. "He's still at hospital. Hasn't heard anything yet."

Sherlock nodded.

Harry turned to Anderson and loudly tossed her purse on the table. "As Sherlock's attorney," she snapped, "you now speak through me. Got it?"

* * *

It was to be three years since her daughter was in the wreck. Martha steeled herself for the anniversary date where the whole world kept on moving as she struggled just to stay upright.

Her husband was gone more and more on business trips and outings that promised to shake out business connections but never served more than to keep him away from home.

The neighborhood had been quiet lately. She hadn't thought much of it. The Holmes had kept to themselves as of late. She hardly heard of peep from them in months. The slinking figures would enter and exit the house almost invisibly. That was, until a balmy August afternoon when she heard the whine of sirens down the street.

With nothing better to do than to leer out the window, she looked for the inevitable appearance of a police car or ambulance. Her best guess was the elderly couple a few houses down. Edgar had been ill for months-it was only a matter of time before his never-ending bouts of pneumonia caught up with him.

The hefty red front of the fire truck came into view first. It whizzed around the corner with its booming sirens echoing down the street. When it passed Edgar's house, her heart fell. If not him, then who?

It parked in front of the Holmes house.

"Oh no," she muttered.

She instantly assumed the worst. The image of Sherlock with a rope around his neck or his wrists slashed to his elbows burned in her mind. She had hardly seen him in weeks and when she said hello it was a meek response with a sorrowful bow of his head and a wave that consisted of a weary flick of his hand.

Her eyes tracked the commotion as the paramedics arrived soon after. Two men jumped from the front seat and raced to the back of their vehicle. In one fluid motion, the gurney was on the ground being rolled towards the Holmes house.

"Please," she muttered as she kneaded her hands.

It felt like a lifetime before any activity was visible from her window. She stared, helpless, at the door for a glimmer of news. In a flurry of action, the paramedics bumped the door open and wheeled out the gurney.

In all the madness, she couldn't see who it was being carried out.

_Just don't let it be him._

There was a splash of black hair from behind the paramedics arm. She gasped as they turned the gurney. And then the red blouse revealed itself.

_Evelyn._

It was almost as bad.

There was an oxygen mask on her face. The paramedics stared with intense concentration as they rushed her to the back of the ambulance. Evelyn looked pale and her body slacken.

Out from inside the house, Sherlock stepped out. His shoulders were hunched and, even from across the street, she could see his face fall in helpless devastation. He stood against the doorframe, alone, and watched as his mother was wheeled to the back of the ambulance. His eyes stayed loyally glued to her every movement as they lifted her in the back and slammed the doors.

At this point, a small crowd had formed in front of the surrounding houses, all cocking their heads and hoping for a peek at the novelty. But he still stood firm as no one even made an attempt to comfort him or look him in the eye. He was the neighborhood oddity, that boy that no one knew much about and didn't care to learn.

As the ambulance drove away, the crowd followed suit. One by one the gawkers retreated back into their homes as they murmured to themselves their speculations on the woman's condition.

Martha grabbed her coat and ran to the front door.

"Sherlock!" she shouted as she rushed across her yard and towards his home.

He hardly moved as she came closer. His entire body stood rigid and still as he held tight to the doorframe. It had been weeks since she'd tried to speak to him-she had assumed their relationship had progressed past the point where he'd politely talk to the woman across the street. He was, after all, nearly eleven and far too mature to talk to adults just to get a little custard.

"Sherlock, darling," she said as she got to his side.

Yet he stood still. His face was etched with trails of tears and his eyes were puffy and pink.

"Do you want me to take you?"

He blinked another deluge of tears that cascaded down the bridge of his nose and landed on the collar of his uniform shirt.

"Or I can call your father?"

He was in shock. She knew better than to push him lest he collapse even further. However, he wasn't safe just standing in his doorway. She'd have to do something.

"Sherlock, please, say something."

Slowly his head turned incrementally towards Martha. "Is she going to die?" he asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.

Her heart fell. She had no idea what condition his mother was in at that point. For all she knew, Evelyn was already gone. "I don't know," she said as she rubbed his back.

His tears came out in large gasps as his entire body crumbled into hers. "I don't want her to die."

She kissed the top of his head and pulled him in close to her chest. His entire body heaved as he struggled to catch his breath between the cries. "I know," she said.

"Father's going to be so angry," he said.

"Angry? No."

"I was supposed to watch her."

Jesus.

What had happened?

There wasn't time for speculation. Her focus needed to be on the boy.

"Let me take you to her."

His cries slowed to a whimper. "He'll be mad."

"He's at work, darling. Let me take you and then I'll call him."

He shook his head. "Don't call him."

"I have to," she said. "He's your father."

Sherlock pulled back and looked at her with frightened eyes. "Can we go?" he asked.

She pulled him in close again and gave him another kiss on the head. "Of course. Let's go see your mother."

* * *

John wanted so badly to leave. It hurt every muscle in his body that he had to stay in the waiting room. His body ached to think of what Sherlock was going through at the station. It was excruciating enough to be at the hospital with the freedom to leave and access to knowledge. He couldn't imagine how it would feel to have the burden of worry crush your every bone.

Harry was there with him. Miraculously she was in town and, out of the kindness of her heart, she got out of bed at three in the morning to travel across the city to the station. John had played every card in his deck and promised more in the future. If he couldn't be there, Harry was the next best thing. Sherlock would be safe with her.

Lestrade refused to leave. He feigned long conversations on his phone as an excuse to walk away from John's glare but he simply walked to his car, sat inside, and came back in the hospital. John still couldn't talk to him civilly, not yet. Despite his protestations at the fairness of the arrest and his proclamations that he too was sure Sherlock hadn't done it, Lestrade still allowed it to happen and John simply couldn't forgive him.

Mrs. Hudson had been in surgery for four hours, going on five, and they hadn't heard a peep from the doctors. Intellectually he knew that it wasn't something to worry about, especially in cases as unusual as hers, but it will concerned him that they had no new answers.

As six in the morning rolled around, John finally let his eyes shut just long enough to grasp a few moments of rest before a voice called out for Hudson. His entire body fell laden with heavy exhaustion but he still got to his feet and lumbered towards the equal weary surgeon.

The man was about his age, perhaps a bit older, with the same jaded glare of a man who'd given his share of terrible news and was not pleased to do it again. As John walked over he feared the worst. He steeled himself to hear that she hadn't survived and prepared how he would get the news to Sherlock.

Just walk, John. Just walk and pray.

The surgeon looked up at him as he attempted to refocus his eyes to the dim lighting of the waiting room.

"Martha Hudson?"

"Yes," John said. "I'm her neighbor."

"I see," the surgeon said. "She's out of surgery."

Alive. She's alive.

John breathed a sigh of relief. "She is?"

"Yes," he said, "but she did have quite a bit of damage."

He didn't want to know. If he knew then he would have to think about every implication and his mind would traipse down the rabbit hole. "Can I see her?"

He shook his head. "We need to stabilize her. May be a while."

It was surgeon speak. He had said the same script to families that he wanted to leave him alone while he worked on a lost cause. The wife whose husband had suffered a massive heart attack or the parents whose son was critically injured in a motorbike accident. It meant that the case was dire and there was a long road ahead.

"I see," he said as he backed away.

She was alive.

He didn't want to know anymore.

She was alive. That was good enough for now.


	5. Chapter 5

Martha grabbed the boy's hand as they sat in the waiting room. His fingers shook against her palm and she squeezed it tighter to calm his nerves. She had bought him a juice that he had taken one meager sip of and sat on the ground in front of his feet.

The attending nurses had called Gregory but they said that they had received no answer from him at work. Sherlock insisted that Mycroft be called and Martha had a quick chat with the teenager who was already running to catch the next cab to make the hour ride back to London. She just hoped that his brother arrived first. Martha was in no condition to speak with Gregory alone.

"Do you want something to eat?" she asked.

Sherlock swung his feet back and force in a hypnotic pattern. He gazed at the blurry lines his shoes made as they whizzed from one spot to another below him.

"Not hungry," he said.

She rubbed his back and hoped that someone would be able to tell them something. It was the not knowing that was most painful.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a tall imposing figure barrel into the waiting room. Her heart leapt in her chest as she caught a glimpse of the steady posture of a Holmes.

"Sherlock?" he asked.

Both of their heads gazed up at the man in the room.

Mycroft.

She had never been so happy to see anyone in her life.

Sherlock immediately jumped up to his feet and ran over to his brother. He buried his head in Mycroft's chest and clung onto him for dear life. In a daze, Mycroft embraced him back, his eyes still jumping between fear and confusion. "It's okay," he said as he rubbed his crying brother's back.

Martha took tentative steps towards them.

"Have they said anything?" Mycroft asked.

Martha shook her head.

Mycroft nodded knowingly and then crouched down to meet his brother's eye. "You all right?"

Sherlock's face was lined with tears and he gulped back his sobs as he struggled to look brave for his brother. "Father's coming," he said.

Mycroft's face fell at the mention of his father. He put a hand on his brother's shoulder and squeezed. "I'm here. It'll be okay."

"I was supposed to watch her," Sherlock said with wide eyes.

"It's not your fault," Mycroft said. "Don't think that it is."

Sherlock nodded but it was clear he didn't believe a word of it.

"Sit," he said to his brother. "Let's just wait together."

The three of them retreated back to the chairs and held their breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

* * *

Sherlock let his mind retreat into the comforts of science. Atomic structures disassembled and combined in his mind. The electrons and neutrons danced in his synapses as he let the music of science take him away from the raw reality of the station.

The questioning was quickly halted shortly after Harry came in. She shut Anderson out completely and refused to answer another question until they had a time to talk. For the last five minutes she'd been sitting across from Sherlock, desperately waiting for him to talk but he couldn't come back. He was too far gone in his own mind. To step back into the light was far too painful.

"Sherlock? John texted me."

He didn't want to hear it.

"It's good news."

The atomic structure of hydrobromous acid.

It's…

He knew this one…

"Sherlock!" she snapped. "Answer me."

The harder he tried to shut her out the louder she became. "What?" he mumbled.

She lifted her phone towards him. "Don't you want to know?"

He looked over at her with an unsure eye. He'd done this before. The waiting game. It never ended well. "Is she…"

Harry shook her head. "He says she out of surgery."

"Can I talk to him?"

Harry looked out towards the window where he knew that a cadre of officers were standing and staring. He already knew the answer. "No, I don't think so. Not yet at least."

He took another sip of the lukewarm water that a kindly cadet had brought in after his embarrassing burst of emotion. It was intended to calm his rattled nerves but the shit-eating grin on Anderson's face more than took care of that display.

"Why are we still in here?" he asked.

She gazed at her notepad and then back at Sherlock. "They're trying to get charges booked."

The news should have come at no surprise but it hit him like a block of wood to the head. "I thought you were—" he began.

"The evidence," she said, "it's solid. I'm sorry to say but they have enough to at least charge you. Whether it'll stick is another story. I'll have to process it all."

He pounded the table with his fist. "You said you believed me!"

"I do," she said. "Of course I do."

The words got caught in his throat. "I didn't do it."

She reached across the table for his hand but he pulled away. John would believe him. He was the only one whom he trusted.

"I know," she said, "but you know how this works."

"How  _this works?_  Can you hear yourself?"

She sighed. "Sherlock, please. I'm doing everything I can."

"I was set up," he said. "Someone is setting me up."

"I know," she said, "but who?"

He fell back in his chair and squeezed his eyes shut. There were people from every walk of life that were more than motivated. He uttered the words that he hated the most. "I don't know."

"Then this will take time," she said.

He looked up at the clock. It was nearly eight in the morning. Mrs. Hudson was alone in the hospital and had been for seven hours. He should be there. He should be the one that she sees when she wakes up . "I don't have time."

"John's there," she said. "He's there for the both of you."

He clenched his jaw tight. "Not good enough."

She turned the pad over to him and handed him her pen. "Write down everyone who might want to do this to you. Everyone. I'll put every person I know on this. Okay?"

It was a drop in the ocean. The people who would do this would kill Harry and her attorney colleagues without a second thought. He couldn't put them in harms way. That wasn't fair to them. "Get me the crime scene pictures," he said.

"But the list…"

He shook his head. "Let me see them."

"You're in no condition to—"

He didn't want to grab the photos from her hand. The officers didn't need any more evidence to prove he was a threat. In as calm and rational a voice as he could muster he spoke. "This is what I'm good at. Just let me try."

There was so much of John in her face. The skepticism was just a shield for a sense of thinly veiled wonderment. They were good people, the Watsons. It just took a little prodding for them to see that he deserved their kindness.

* * *

The next hour was a whirlwind for Martha. With Gregory still out of communication, the older brother handled the entire affair. All she heard were bits and pieces from the conversations that Mycroft had with the doctors.

Every time he rose, Mycroft came back with his shoulder a bit more slouched and creases of panic written on his face. Miraculously, Sherlock didn't notice and Mycroft did a spectacular job of making the news palatable for the ten year old. She had never been more proud of the boy.

After the third talk with the doctors, Mycroft couldn't hold it together any longer. Instead of walking back to the chairs, he took a sharp right and went through a pair of doors and into a hallway.

Sherlock started to walk towards him but Martha held him back.

"He's sad," Sherlock said.

"Let me talk to him," Martha said.

"I want to talk to him."

She gave him a quick hug. "Let me see what it is and then you can talk to him, all right?"

Tentatively Sherlock agreed and Martha took the longest walk of her life down towards the hallway. She knew in her heart that it would be devastating but she steeled herself—ready for whatever came out of the boy's mouth.

Mycroft had taken a seat on the floor a few feet from the door and had his hands cradled around his knees. Tears fell down his cheeks and his cheeks were stained and pink. Martha kneeled down and rubbed his back.

"What did they say?"

Mycroft shook his head.

"Mycroft, darling. What is it?"

She felt the dread take over as Mycroft looked up at her with panicked eyes. "They said that they couldn't bring her back."

Instantly she was nauseous. "What are you saying?"

In between gasps and sobs he spoke. "She lost too much blood," he said, "and her heart was too damaged."

She didn't want to say the words. It took her weeks to articulate that Dorothy had died and she desperately didn't want to force him to say it. "When?"

"Five minutes ago. They used the shock things and they said they couldn't help her. And now my father has to come and see her…and he's going to be so angry. He doesn't want to take care of...he doesn't want to do this. Where is he?" He rambled and mumbled every word and she could feel the fear in his voice as he spoke.

She looked back towards the door. The little boy was sitting so patiently behind it, waiting for good news that he would never hear. How she wished that someone else could tell him—anyone else. But it was on her. She was part of this now. Perhaps hearing it from a familiar face would soften the blow or at least lessen the agony just enough to keep on going.

"I'll tell your brother."

Mycroft wiped his eyes on his sweater sleeve. "I can do it," he whimpered.

She gave him a kiss on the head. "Darling, it's fine. You stay here as long as you need. I'll watch him." She motioned a nurse over to Mycroft so someone would be nearby for him. Immediately the nurse grabbed him a box of tissues and lifted him towards the chairs a few feet away.

Martha took a deep breath and tried to find the right words. For the rest of his life, Sherlock would remember this moment. Her every movement, every syllable, would be etched in his memory until the day he died. She would only have one chance to make the pain that much less searing.

The boy sat as still and polite as ever in his seat. He gazed up at her expectantly and gave the slightest hint of a smile as if making her feel welcome would bring good news.

"Is Mycroft okay?" he asked.

She nodded. "He's all right. Darling, I have something to tell you…"


	6. Chapter 6

It was an hour before he spoke. Sherlock sat in his chair and stared straight ahead with the stoic expression of a marble statue. Martha had her hand on top of his and she squeezed periodically just to make sure he stayed aware of where he was. He wasn't crying. He didn't even whimper.

Mycroft had returned a few minutes after she gave the news and did his best to try to coax his brother back to reality but it was futile. "Just give him time," she said as Mycroft crouched in front of his brother and tried desperately to get him to speak.

It was heart-wrenching to see the distraught boy attempted to pull it together. Mycroft put his hand so gently on Sherlock's leg and spoke softly. "We have to go home," he said. "I'll make you your favorite dinner." But Sherlock sat motionless and lost. Mycroft's shoulder hunched and she could see him slowly lose the threads of composure. He was just a boy himself. It was too much to ask of him.

He had left to find their father. Mycroft suspected that he was in trial and was unable to get messages from his office. Desperate to get away from the hospital and his catatonic brother, Mycroft begged to leave and look for his father. Martha knew that there was nothing for him to do but mourn. It was on her now to watch the boy. She was what he needed right now.

"Do you want to go home?" she asked.

His eyes raced back and forth but still he sat still.

She wanted to let him grieve on his own but the waiting room of the hospital was the worst of all places. There was no reason to stay. There was nothing left to wait for.

"Or we can go somewhere else. Sherlock, darling, we should leave."

His head turned just slightly and his eyes shifted all the way to the left. "I can't leave her," he said in a low grumble.

After the accident, she stayed in Dorothy's room for hours. The nurses would peer and sigh at the prospect of having to wait to clear the room but she appreciated their patience. She knew that once she walked out the door she would never see her little girl again. Once she said her goodbyes it would finally be real.

"I know," she said, "but you need to rest."

"No," he said with a snap.

As much as it hurt to see him so sunken into himself, she knew that it was all on her to take action. He needed someone to take charge.

Martha grabbed his hand pulled him up in an attempt to get him to his feet. Being so small, it was not difficult to force him up but she felt her arm lurch forward as he tried to yank his hand away. "Stop it!" he shouted.

She had never heard him raise his voice. It was alarming to see his face contorted in a ghoulish mask of the sweet boy she knew. "Sherlock…" she soothed.

His lip quivered as he pulled his arms to his chest and crossed them. "Go away!"

She didn't want to take it personally but it was so hard to see him so upset. Martha put out her hands and beckoned him close. "Please."

All she saw were his tiny fists ball up and the sting on her skin as he hit her in the arm. When she didn't pull away, he hit her again. It didn't hurt, at least not physically. He swatted and swung a few more times before his movements slowed and he stood, his head drooped against his chest.

Her arm was dotted with pink splotches that ached as she grabbed him by the shirt sleeve and brought him near. He didn't fight. Martha wrapped her arm around him and pulled him into her chest. "Whatever you need, love. Whatever you need."

She felt his body heave into a tumult of tears as she nestled him against her chest. It didn't matter that an entire waiting room had begun to stare at their production. For all she cared, the world could watch them.

This was for the boy.

* * *

He didn't want to call Harry. Sherlock would have been through enough. Maybe ignorance would power the investigation faster.

John, at this moment, hated the knowing. The surgeon came out and detailed the reasons that Mrs. Hudson had been rushed back to surgery. He tried to block out the minutiae but it was impossible to stay that uninformed. Liver had been more damaged than previously thought and there was bleeding in her abdomen that they could not identify.

He was so exhausted that the words raced over him in a flurry of information. As he fell back in the chair, he wanted so badly to have someone else around. There was never a time that he couldn't call Sherlock and have him at least available if the moment arose. But now it was all him against the world. He, alone, had to be here for the both of them.

The longer he gripped his phone, the harder it was not to call his sister. A part of him didn't want to know how Sherlock was doing. The thought that he was in pain was more than John could bear. But yet he dialed.

Harry answered on the first ring.

"What happened?" she asked.

Not even a hello. She sounded frazzled. "She's back in surgery."

"Oh no…"

"I know..." he said. "How's he doing?"

She sighed. Normal Sherlock response. "He's been looking at the crime scene photos."

"Harry," he chastised, "why? Why are you letting him?"

"You don't understand…"

" _I_  don't understand? Surely you must be joking. More than anyone I understand. He may say that he's all right but he is not."

"I know," she said. "I did everything I could to stop him but he was adamant. I didn't know what else to do."

"You don't let him look at crime scene photos. Dammit Harry…" His exhaustion had turned him into a monster. He immediately regretted his words but it was too late to take them back.

"I'm doing you a favor. You do understand that."

"Yes," he said softly. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired."

"I know. John, if anyone can figure this out, it's him."

He knew that she was right. "Has he found anything?"

"Bits and pieces," she said. "The evidence is stacked against him. It's so hard-"

"He didn't do it," John said. He needed to say the words out loud just to stay sane.

"Of course. I know that but does the world think that?" she said.

John picked at an errant thread on his pants. "Why do they think he'd do this? He loves her more than anything."

"I don't know," she said mournfully. "I'm doing everything I can. You know that, right?"

"Of course," he said as he felt a lump form in his throat. "Just don't tell him about the surgery quite yet."

"Okay," she said.

There was a comfortable silence for a few moments. A lifetime of pain and compromise flowed between the phones and he could feel the warm embrace of his sister. Their entire lives had been moments like this-standing silently after their parents fought in the other room or when Harry stumbled in drunk after a night partying and he had to pick up the pieces. It was hard, but it was worth it.

"Thank you," he said. "I couldn't do this witho-"

"John," she interrupted. "I wouldn't want to do anything less. This is important."

He choked back the tears that had been building up. "I have to go," he whimpered.

"Love you," she said.

As he hung up the phone he wiped his eyes. It was exactly what he needed to hear.


	7. Chapter 7

There was nothing.

His brain ached as he looked at every bit of the photos. They were low-quality, taken quickly by an idiot who didn't know what to focus on. In the coming days the scene would be cataloged more thoroughly and then he'd be able to glean something. But these were rubbish. All he could see was a bloodied carpet and a smashed lamp. It was nothing.

And if he couldn't find anything, what hope was there for the imbeciles who got paid to do this.

Harry had left the room to give him privacy but he suspected she was growing tired of him. It didn't hurt his feelings, not in the least. Years of people slowly pulling away from him had allowed him to discard them as quickly as they did to him.

He knew it was a matter of time before they formally charged him. In all reality his closeness with the department had bought him a few hours, especially with Lestrade around, but it wasn't a free pass. Any officer with a brain would have charged him.

Why couldn't he find anything?

What was wrong with him?

He went to reach for the folder for one last check and he felt the tremors in his hand. It had been years since this had been a problem.

_Get it together._

_What is wrong with you?_

He felt his father's strong forceful hands cover his own in an attempt to hide his defects from the public. The damaged boy who couldn't go out without shaking.

_Stop it, Sherlock._

He felt the anxiety creep across his back. It latched on with its teeth and dug into his flesh. The harder he tried to resist it the stronger it became. It shouted in his ears.

_She's dead._

_You killed her._

He slid the folder across the table.

This wasn't his fault.

He wasn't there.

_You were supposed to watch her._

This wasn't his fault. He didn't hurt her.

_You were supposed to help her._

No.

He didn't hurt her. This was someone else. Someone cruel. Someone who wanted to hurt him through the people he loved.

Sherlock gripped his fists tight in his lap and held his breath.

He was so tired.

So weak.

_You're weak._

"Sherlock?"

He didn't want to hear another word.

Stay in your own head and you're safe. No one can touch you there.

Mrs. Hudson taught him that.

"Open your eyes."

Harry. He didn't want to see Harry.

"Please."

She sounded sad. He peered at her. In one hand was a paper cup that steamed with coffee that she held as an afterthought.

"Is she dead?" he asked.

Harry paused before she spoke.

"She is?"

Her eyes opened wide. "Sherlock, stop doing that."

His chest ached immediately. "Go," he said.

"She's not. Oh my god, she's not. She's not…" It was the stammer of a liar.

He didn't believe her. "Go."

"I swear. You just caught me off-guard."

She was dead. He couldn't breathe. "Go!" he shouted.

Harry didn't leave. "Why don't you believe me?"

He shook his head. There weren't words.

"I'll call John. He'll tell you."

He didn't have the energy to fight. Everyone was leaving. The last threads of happiness were snipped and he was alone.

_Don't cry._

Not in front of Harry.

He turned his head and stared straight into the light. The burst of pain into his eyes was enough. Keep it together. Don't let her see you cry.

The phone rang in the distance. It felt distant, like a TV playing in another room. Harry shouted towards him but it was mumbled. All he could hear were sirens and banging. The more he ran away the louder it got.

"Sherlock?"

John.

The voice pierced through the buzzing in his brain.

"Are you there?"

Harry held the phone in his direction.

"John?"

"She's alive. She's in surgery but she's alive."

Could it be true? "You sure?"

John laughed a tired chuckle. "Pretty sure. I've been here the whole time."

He looked up at Harry who smiled along. "I told you," she said.

"Do you want me to come to the station?" John asked.

"Stay with her," Sherlock said.

"You sure?"

He looked over at Harry. His hand still shook but he smothered it with the unchained palm and hoped that she hadn't noticed.

Mrs. Hudson was alive.

There was still hope.

* * *

Mycroft left for school three weeks after the funeral. At the service he looked like the weight of the world had been placed on his shoulders. He constantly stood between his brother and his father whenever possible and his head was constantly moving back and forth between the two of them.

She had the boys over for dinner when she knew that Gregory would be working late. Mycroft was an excellent cook and helped with the preparation and Sherlock dutifully did the washing afterwards. They would often cuddle on the couch after eating and they'd watch whatever mindless comedy was on the air.

There wasn't much talking. Mycroft attempted to discuss neutral news topics in an attempt to get his brother engaged but the boy grew more distant as the days wore on. He came over with a book, often large tomes filled with words more suitable to a university class, and would sit at the table with it perched on his lap.

She didn't mind. Mycroft was pleasant company and the quiet of reading seemed to make Sherlock happy so she didn't fight it.

It was as Mycroft was leaving to go back to school that she realized that he would no longer be a buffer between her and the boy. If she was planning on keeping an eye on him, it would just be the two of them. She would have to solve the equation that was Sherlock if she wanted to help him.

Gregory worked later and later after Mycroft left for school. Her own husband would come in the house, say hello and then go straight to his room. He barely acknowledged their guests and never mentioned them when they were gone.

It was a month after Evelyn's passing that her own husband finally was forced to interact with the boy. Gregory had told her that he was out of town for the week and implied that she should be taking care of his child for him, not that she minded. As she lugged a bag filled with the boy's clothes in through the front door, her husband looked over from his spot in the living room.

Jasper put down the remote and looked over at the figure of a boy with his head to the ground and a book clasped in his hand.

"Eh, is he staying?" he shouted across the length of the house.

Martha gestured for Sherlock to continue on his own. "Yes," she said. "Gregory's out of town. No one is there to watch him."

He set the remote down and gestured wildly with his hands. She saw the tumbler of bourbon next to him was empty and the slur in his voice was clue enough that he wasn't in his right mind.

"We aren't getting paid or anything. Why you doing this?"

"He needs our help," she said quietly.

"He's eleven for God's sake. Let him take care of himself. We aren't made of money, Martha. We can't be paying for some kid to stay in our house. Get that Gregory to give us some cash and we'll talk."

"Jesus. His mother just died," she said.

He shook his head. "I don't really give a shit. He's not my kid."

She clenched in her fists and forced herself not to say what she so badly wanted to say. It was his fault that Dorothy was in the accident. He was supposed to be watching her. If he hadn't let her go play, she wouldn't have been in the street.

How dare he.

"He's staying whether you like it or not," she said. She felt the quiver start to rise in her voice.

He smacked the arm of the chair with his open palm. "You are such a pushover. Any goddamn sob story just gets you right there, huh? What? We going to pay for his university? How about a new pair of trainers. I'll buy him a few prostitutes for his eighteenth birthday like a good ol' dad, huh?"

She began to walk away but she didn't want Sherlock to hear that another person didn't care enough to stand up for him. "Just don't talk to him," she said. "Leave him alone."

"When's this going to end?"

"What?"

"Pitiful," he said. "Just pathetic."

She forced herself not to cry. "It's being a good person."

He laughed. "Not in the least."

Screw him.

That's what her therapists told her. Just walk away before it gets physical. Don't let him have a target to shoot at.

Step away.

And tell yourself that he's an idiot.

She walked into Dorothy's old room which she'd made up for Sherlock. He sat on the bed with  _Tale of Two Cities_  on his lap. He was over halfway through which was significantly farther than any of the ladies from her book club had gotten.

"Hello love," she said.

He looked up for a moment and gave her a polite smile before returning to the book.

"You want something to eat?"

He shook his head.

She sat at the edge of the bed next to him. "You like the book?"

He didn't answer.

"I tried reading that years back," she said. "I didn't care for it."

He turned his head just slightly and his eyes had just a hint of light. "I don't like it either," he whispered, "but Mycroft said he'd give me five pounds if I finish it."

She smiled and wrapped her arm around him and pulled him close. "Good deal," she said. "You'll be rich if he keeps that up, huh?"

He nuzzled his head slightly into her shoulder.

He was safe.

Behind closed doors, they were safe.

They had each other.


	8. Chapter 8

He didn't want to do it. Twenty hours on the clock and his next shift was to begin in twenty minutes. Greg Lestrade had never been so tired and as the charges sat in front of him, it was his job to carry them out.

There was a line out the door to be the one to cuff Sherlock Holmes. Every person in the station took great glee from the idea that the thorn in their side would be behind bars. It sickened him as detectives and cadets alike peered into his office with sly smiles. They wanted to see Sherlock squirm and it made him want to scream.

No, he had to do it. He was the one that had brought Sherlock in on this journey all those years back and he was the one that sat there and let it continue. He had seen the boy in that cell with bruises on his face and drugs in his system and looked past the anger. When Sherlock was able to tell him that he had just met his future wife based on the ways his eyes moved when he talked about her, he knew that this was a rare find. No matter how bloody annoying he was, Sherlock was a genius.

He was a genius.

But he was also a profoundly broken person and needed to be cared for gently.

No, Greg knew he was the one that would need to charge him.

His stomach ached as he pulled himself up to his feet. The two cups of coffee that he'd chugged the hour before began to work their magic and gave him just the jolt to grab the cuffs from his drawer and walk out the door of his office.

They'd held Sherlock in Interrogation Room 3 for the last six hours. The man had refused to eat and his wrist was still chained to the table. Greg hadn't seen him since they'd brought him in and that was on purpose. Seeing him weak and helpless just brought back too many memories. That wasn't the version of Sherlock that he wanted to see. John was fixing him-making him the best version of himself and the version that was in the Interrogation room would just be a pale imitation.

When he first stepped in, he was taken aback by how exhausted Sherlock looked. John had regaled him with tales of Sherlock staying up for days without so much as a hiccup in his daily schedule, but this was not the superhuman version that John had laid out. Sherlock's eyes drooped and they sat heavy on his face. His movements were slow and his muscles pulled him down to a stretched and worn silhouette. His lawyer stood against the wall and looked just as exhausted as her client. He saw so much of John in her face-the same fierce loyalty and care that danced on the surface. So vulnerable, so raw.

Sherlock looked up with a hopeful expression. "What is it?"

Greg shook his head.

"No," Sherlock said. He pointed towards the photos. "Just give me a bit longer. I can find something."

He spoke frantically and his eyes darted back and forth to his lawyer and to Greg. He was scared.

Sherlock Holmes was scared.

"I'm sorry," Greg said as he pulled the cuffs out.

The lawyer stepped forward. "Is that really necessary?"

He nodded. "Unfortunately…"

Sherlock sat straight up and put his hand out towards Greg. "Please," he begged. "Don't do this."

"I have to," he said.

Sherlock's hand shook as he spoke. "I didn't do it. You have to believe me."

"I do," Greg said. "I do believe you."

Sherlock stammered as he struggled to find the words. "I can't...I can't figure it out. You know I didn't...I would never...Greg...I didn't…"

Greg could see the terror in his eyes. "It won't be for long," he said.

"You don't know that," Sherlock whimpered.

Greg didn't know that but his faith in Sherlock was strong. If anyone could find a way out of it, it would be Sherlock. "They'll get more information. You can help. We'll find out who did this."

He leaned over and undid the cuff that attached Sherlock to the table. For an instant he sat quietly and they stared each other with the look that spoke for years of pain and suffering. He saw the hopelessness.

And he didn't blame Sherlock for a second for what he did next.

In one fluid motion, Sherlock jumped up and pushed Greg away. He stumbled back and lost his footing long enough to be distracted. Sherlock barreled past him and towards the door in sloppy motions. He was tired and hungry and he couldn't get his bearings enough to open the door.

"Sherlock!" Greg shouted. If he kept this up, the other officers would take over.

He didn't stop. Sherlock got it together long enough to open the door and he swung it open with great force.

And then he ran.

Greg didn't bother to get up. By the time he got there, the officers would have grabbed him. He just prayed they were gentle.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked as she put a hand out for him to grab.

"Fine," he said mournfully, just waiting for the screams from down the hall.

He took a step into the hallway and saw Sherlock on the ground with two officers on his back. One had dug his knee into Sherlock's spine which caused him to yelp in pain as the officer maneuvered to get in the right position.

"Get off of him!" Greg shouted.

The other officer yanked Sherlock's left arm back in a grotesque angle and cuffed his wrists together.

Greg kept walking. "Get off of him!" he shouted again.

It was then the officers noticed. They sheepishly peeled themselves from Sherlock and left the prostrate man alone on the floor. As Greg crouched down to examine him, all he could see was the hint of tears that trickled down his cheek as he hid the rest of his face in the carpet.

The rest of the station had dropped everything and stared at the spectacle.

Greg spun around and gave a glare that came from his gut. It said more than any words could. Immediately they all moved away.

Greg rubbed Sherlock's back. "You ready to get up?"

Sherlock nodded best he could.

Greg grabbed a napkin from his pocket and shielded Sherlock from the rest of the station's gaze. He took Sherlock by either should and got him to his knees. There were still tears in Sherlock's eyes that he desperately tried to shield his face from Greg.

"Don't worry, mate," Greg said as he quickly wiped away the evidence of emotion from Sherlock's face.

"They won't see."

 


	9. Chapter 9

John tried Mycroft again. All night he'd rang him and got nothing but a voicemail. It was unusual and that was what worried him the most. He wanted to call Greg and get someone on this but it felt alarmist. While Mycroft was part of his little world, he was also a busy man and all the drama and whirlwind had taken place in the middle of the night. For all he knew, Mycroft was on a flight to Los Angeles and his phone was off.

It was when he couldn't get ahold of either of his secretaries that his heart started to beat hard in his chest.

He found the attending nurse and begged her to call him if there was even the slightest change in Mrs. Hudson's condition. Just sitting in the waiting room for hours on end wasn't helping anyone.

If Sherlock was here, they'd go together.

No he'd have to do it.

He'd have to go alone.

Mycroft's home was far more extravagant than necessary. For such a seemingly simple and straightforward man, his sprawling estate did not seem to suit him. What did feel accurate was the obsessive upkeep of every aspect of the building from the grass and trees to the dusting in the laundry room. There was never a speck out of place.

John jumped from the cab and buzzed at the gate. He didn't expect an answer. When no one responded, he did a stretch, readied his tired muscles and began to scale the ten foot gate. Thankfully it was quiet and his house was in a secluded area of the community so he didn't have onlookers calling the police on him. Even so, he knew he'd have to be quick.

It had been years since he'd had to do any physical activity more strenuous than a run down the street and his lazy biceps burned as he propelled his body up the gate. His feet slipped against the smooth metal but yet he got to the top. With the faith of karma on his side, he swung his feet over and hoped he didn't fall on his back and break every bone in his body.

Miraculously his hands didn't slip and he had complete control. He'd have to brag to Sherlock about that sometime-no more clumsy John anymore.

He eyed a soft patch of grass a bit to the right and aimed his jump as such. In a surge of bravery he leapt off the top of the gate and landed with a thud on the grass. The force echoed through his body but he was unscatched-not even a grass stain on his pants.

Soon after he'd moved in to Baker St., John was given a key to Mycroft's home. It was to be used in case they ever felt they were in danger and needed somewhere to stay. He'd never taken Mycroft up on the offer but it was comforting to know that a palatial estate was just a cab ride away.

He walked quickly up the pathway and past the rose bushes and tulips that were trimmed and coifed to majestic ends. By the time he got to the door, John felt a crushing sense of fear.

What would he say when he got in. Even if Mycroft was there, how would he explain himself. How could he tell Mycroft that the woman he'd known his entire life was fighting for her own in the hospital?

Get it together, he admonished himself.

He took a deep breath as he coaxed the key in the lock and opened the door to the sprawling foyer. Greeting him immediately was a large oak table that house a marble statue of a intricately detailed swan as well as a vase filled with wilting lilies.

Wilting.

 _Shit_.

His heart sank as he walked up to the flowers and let his fingers glide across their sagging petals. The water in the vase was nearly empty and the flowers seem have been sitting on the table for days.

"Mycroft!" he shouted.

The house was endless but still he ran.

The living room.

Nothing.

Library.

Nothing.

"Mycroft!" he shouted as he ran to the kitchen.

Nothing.

John's heart raced as he ran up the stairs.

He begged to not find anything. He couldn't take anymore. It was too much. He couldn't do it. He couldn't feel another thing.

The bedroom door was shut. It was the only door in the entire house that was closed.

"Mycroft?" he said as he banged on it.

He knew that the answer was behind the door.

"Open the door!"

He reached for the knob.

Unlocked.

John took in a sharp breath and swung the door open.

* * *

The years wore on and Sherlock came over less and less often as he got older. She knew that it wasn't his choice. Gregory had actively discouraged his children from associating with her. He had gone out of his way to denigrate her in front of Sherlock and would come over to her house if he was over and drag him back home. The entire walk back she'd hear him bellow and chastise Sherlock for being distracted and perpetuating his oddities when he should be home studying.

She knew for a fact that he had a perfect grade point average and was a stellar student. Whenever he was over, he brought his textbooks along with him and would read quietly in her kitchen until her husband returned home. It was just a change of scenery-a neutral location where he felt safe and even then he had to be on edge. Whenever darkness came he would peer out the window and wait for his father's car to pull into the garage. At that point, he'd scoop up his belongings and take an exit he'd devised himself that somehow hid himself from his father's gaze.

The day before an important maths exam, he was in the kitchen, perched at the counter with four books open simultaneously. He'd had a minimum day at school so he'd been back in time for lunch. She'd long given up asking if he had any friends that he'd want to study with-he seemed content with his own grueling schedule. To have anyone else to contend with would just disrupt his gentle balance.

He sat in near silence for five hours. Every hour or so she'd put out a treat whether it be a plate of biscuits or a cup of tea-whatever it seemed like he needed at the moment. Years of watching him had trained her well. She seemed intuit what the boy wanted. It was a perfect partnership.

As six o'clock came, she heard her husband park loudly on the street. His shift had ended at four so she knew he'd taken a stop at the pub. She steeled herself for what inevitably came next, especially when Sherlock was in their house. He had never warmed up to the boy and the feeling was mutual.

The key slammed into the lock and the chipped wood all around it for a full thirty seconds before he finally got inside. Jasper stumbled through the door and immediately turned to the kitchen where Martha stood with a cup of tea and the hope that she had the strength to get through the rest of the night.

"Evening," she said. "How was work?"

He looked at her through heavy eyelids. "Shit," he said with a laugh. "Absolutely shit."

She took in a sharp breath and let her finger glide of the smooth porcelain of the cup. "Sorry to hear that."

Jasper grunted as wandered towards the refrigerator. He swung the door so hard that it ricocheted and smacked him in the back. He grunted again as his anger at the futility of his life seemed to encompass him.

"Where's the chicken?"

"I had it for lunch," she said.

He slammed the door. "I told you I was having that for dinner."

"I forgot," she said.

"Jesus," he muttered. "Bloody idiot."

She saw as Sherlock's head peered up just a bit from his book. Somehow he had maintained some level of invisibility from Jasper and she hoped it stayed that way.

"Sorry. I can make you something else."

He opened up every cupboard and slammed each door shut with a bang. As hard as she tried, she couldn't help but jump just a bit with the noise. After all these years she should be used to it but it still startled her.

"You want me to make that soup?"

"Soup?" he said with a snarl. "I'm not eating  _soup_."

"You love that soup."

He scoffed. "You just sit around all day and wait for me to get home to make fun of me?"

"Make fun-"

He smacked the counter with an open palm. "Eating  _my_  food that  _I_  pay for. What do you even do besides spending my goddamn money, eh?"

"Jasper…"

He shook his head. "I'm sick of it, Martha. You screwing around on me? Is that why all my food's gone?"

"What?" she said.

He took a step forward. His face was red and his eyes were glassy. He'd had more to drink than usual. That was never good. Nights like this were the ones where she had to go to her sister's and hide the knives.

She hated those nights.

It happened before she could move. His fingers wrapped around her wrist and he pulled her towards him with a jerk. It was more startling than painful but still she screamed.

"Shut up," he snarled.

She whimpered as she tried to push him away.

"Stop," she said.

His fist appeared out of the corner of her eye and she braced for impact.

Then there was a thud.

She opened her eyes just crack and saw Sherlock with his maths textbook in his hand and her husband on the ground, knocked out cold.

"Sherlock!" she said.

He brought the book against his chest and looked at her with surprise. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just-"

She didn't know what to say. Martha stared at him in disbelief. "Your book?" she asked.

He nodded.

She took a step back from her unconscious husband. In that moment she didn't much care how he was. He deserved a solid cold cock from an Algebra textbook.

Sherlock took a step forward and took her arm gently in his hands. He ran his fingers down her wrist. "Are you all right?"

She nodded. "I'm fine."

"He shouldn't-"

Martha gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you."

* * *

Before John took another step he pulled out his phone and dialed Lestrade.

Lestrade responded on the first ring. "John?"

He ran over to Mycroft's side and felt for a pulse.

Alive.

"Get an ambulance to Mycroft's."

Lestrade was silent.

John turned Mycroft over. The gash on his head was massive but had clotted. He had been lying there for hours, if not days. John forced himself not to get upset.

Stay clinical.

Be the doctor.

"Jesus…"

He heard Sherlock in the distance. "What is it?" Sherlock shouted.

It broke his heart to hear Sherlock. He sounded broken.

"How is he?" Lestrade asked quietly.

Besides the head injury, John couldn't find any other injuries. That, at least, was hopeful. "All right, I think. I need a CT to see the damage. Just get someone over."

"Absolutely."

He wanted to tell Lestrade not to inform Sherlock but it felt ridiculous to hide anything further from him. It was the reality. He was in the dark enough. John just hoped that this would all work itself out.

He forced himself to not think of how scared his friend must be.

It hurt too much.

All he could do was do the work for both of them. He would have to save Sherlock.

It was his job now.


	10. Chapter 10

John propped Mycroft up to a seated position and did his best to examine the wound. His right eye was bruised and there was evidence that he'd been hit with something that had caused the slight indentation near his ear. John suspected that a combination of blood loss and dehydration was what was keeping him unconscious. It was nothing that a few hours in hospital wouldn't fix.

As John went towards the window to look for the squad of emergency vehicles, he heard a creak coming from outside the room. He'd been all over the house. It was empty.

Immediately he looked around the room for something, anything, that he could use as a weapon. For a man of so many interests his bedroom was devoid of anything useful. That is except the ghastly letter opener that seemed a relic from the gates of Hell. He wrapped his fingers around the coiled snakes that made up the handle and readied himself for an intruder.

As soon as it began, the noise stopped.

Combat training had taught him to not stand down in the apparent end of danger. That was what they expected. He kept the letter opener at his side and his knees bent, ready to pounce.

It was then that he felt the gun barrel against his back.

"Don't turn around."

He stayed perfectly still.

"Drop the weapon."

The letter opener fell with a crash against the floor.

"Call them back."

The voice was deep and muffled. John suspected he was speaking through a mask of some kind but he didn't dare turn around to confirm it. "Call who?"

The man jutted the gun into his spine. "The police."

"I don't know what you're talking about." It was a test Sherlock had taught him-see what they know and not what they assume. It was dangerous but it worked. At least it worked for Sherlock.

"Call them back or I will shoot you."

"And say what?" he asked.

The barrel dug into his back and pinched and prodded at the nerves in his spine. His legs twitched and his entire body ached in response. "Whatever you have to. If I see a cop car, both of you die."

John shut his eyes and grabbed his phone from his pocket. It was one thing to sacrifice himself but Mycroft hadn't done anything wrong. Being brave had run its course. It was time to give in.

"All right," he said with a sigh.

The gun needled in further and John winced as he struggled to find Lestrade's name in his phone. "Hurry."

"I'm trying," John said.

He took a deep breath as the phone began to ring. He prayed that it wasn't too late. He prayed that Sherlock would know what to do next.

It was his only hope.

* * *

"He's over there."

A tired office pointed towards a bench that held a glowering teenager in a soiled uniform shirt. His pant leg was torn at the knee and his jaw was bruised and battered. Mycroft moved forward as strongly as he could muster. He'd gotten the call in the middle of class and drove the hour long trip back home just to bail out of his brother. God help the boy if their father found out first.

Sherlock didn't look up as Mycroft sat next to him.

"We can go."

He shook his head. "I don't want to go."

Mycroft stroked the boy's back. "I know, but you can't stay here."

Sherlock buried his head in his hands. There weren't other options. He'd tried to get special dispensation from his school to let Sherlock stay with him but they wouldn't hear of it. He offered to pay for a flat off-campus for Sherlock to stay in but his father wouldn't allow it. His only option was to drop out of school to be a full-time security guard for the next three years. It wasn't reasonable.

When he was at school he could pretend like the world went back to normal and he didn't have to wait in fear for a phone call from the police or the hospital, but that was naive. The moment he left he knew that there was no buffer and the idle threats of a nineteen year old boy meant nothing to his father.

Mrs. Hudson was his only ally. She called when she was afraid for Sherlock. There the call last month when she noticed the large bruise on his back and the call a few months back when Sherlock collapsed in her kitchen because he hadn't eaten in days. There were dozens of those calls and it made every moment like walking through a minefield.

"I'll stay for a bit," he said. He had an exam in the morning but his teacher had been accommodating of his family. It didn't much matter at this rate. If he sent Sherlock home after having run away for the last two days, his father would kill him. The embarrassment alone at his son being carted into a police station was enough to sustain him for days.

He couldn't leave his brother alone. Not this time.

"How long?" Sherlock asked.

"Few days," he said.

The voice that came from Sherlock was so small, so weak. "And then what?"

He didn't have an answer.

He wrapped his arm around Sherlock and pulled him in tight.

* * *

Something was wrong. Why wouldn't they tell him?

Mycroft. What had happened to Mycroft? If he was dead they would have told him. Wouldn't they?

He looked over at Lestrade and watched as he spoke. A hint of fear flickered in his eye. There was rush to his movements. No one rushed to a corpse.

Yet he stood without information. His heart pounded as he strained to hear something, anything, to calm his fears. But Lestrade simply turned and nodded. "I have to go."

Sherlock pounded on the bars. "Tell me," he begged.

"Not yet. Not 'til I know what's going on."

He felt light-headed. If he ate, he'd grow drowsy. No, he had to stay alert. Every moment was essential. Even without a weapon, he was still in this fight. "Greg…" he said.

Lestrade bowed his head. "Sherlock, sit down. You look awful."

He gritted his teeth. "I feel fine. Just tell me. I can take it."

There was a long silence between them as Lestrade looked off to the distance. Sherlock could see his clogged cogs working behind his tired eyes. He'd been on the clock for nearly a day and the work had worn him. If Lestrade was smart, he'd keep Sherlock in the loop.

"There was an attack…" he began.

"Mycroft...how is he?"

Lestrade's quickly flickered down to the ground before he spoke. He was formulating a lie. "He's all right."

Sherlock gripped the bars. "Tell me the truth."

"That is the truth."

He felt his chest grow tight and the room undulate all around him. Just to stay upright he held the bars for dear life. "Is he dead?" he said so quietly he could hardly hear himself.

"No," Lestrade answered quickly.

The truth. Finally.

"How bad?"

There was helplessness laced in his voice. "I really don't know. John's with him."

It was then that his mobile rang.

"Who is it?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade shielded the screen from Sherlock which only served to infuriate him further. He took a few steps away and held the phone tight to his ear.

Sherlock fell against the wall as his last thread of hope walked away. It all felt unreal. He had to run his hand over the concrete on the walls just to confirm that it all wasn't a grotesque nightmare.

If Mycroft was attacked, it was only a matter of time before it was John. His entire body seized at the idea of it. He felt the lump in his throat grow until it nearly suffocated him. What monster was doing this. Why him? Why now?

He fell to the floor and clutched his knees to his chest. The harder he shut his eyes, the louder his father's voice rang in his ears.

_It's your fault!_

He cupped his ears to rid himself of the sound.

_She was your responsibility! You should have watched her!_

He smacked his fist against his leg. The pain only made it worse.

_She only did it because of you. A burden. That's what she called you. A burden and a waste._

He saw her on the ground, her wrists slashed the blood pooled on either side of her body. It had been fifteen minutes since he'd last looked in on her. The last time he saw her she smiled at him.

She looked so happy.

How could he have known?

He heard the closet door slam and the lock click. The buzz of the timer by his side was his only company for the hour after his father returned home. It was to teach him a lesson but soon became a habit. He'd crawl in without being asked. It was the only place that he was safe. It was the only place he couldn't hurt him.

_A burden._

"Sherlock!" Lestrade said as he came over. He held the phone out like it was radioactive.

He couldn't speak. His throat was raw and his chest ached.

"John called off the ambulances."

He looked up.

It was odd but not incredible. "Why?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No idea."

"What did he say?"

Mycroft was dead.

That's why there was no reason to rush over an ambulance. He slammed his head back against the wall and the thud of concrete against his skull rattled down his body. For a moment he didn't feel the ache in his gut.

"That he could handle it."

Sherlock wiped away the tears that came to his eyes. "I see…"

How he wished for the closet. The darkness, the solitude, was the only place he could escape to. His father found it a punishment but after a day of being bullied and shouted to by everyone from peers and teachers to shopkeepers and bus drivers, it was silence. Being alone was his only protection. Everything else was too dangerous.

Loving something only meant that he could lose it.

It only meant heartbreak.

"He said something...it was for you. He said that you should look on the top shelf. Something like that. Does that make sense?"

Top shelf.

It had been ages since they'd agreed to that.

It was their code.

If anyone was being held against their will and was being forced to speak, that was the cue.

John. He'd done it.

Brilliant.

Sherlock sat up. "He's being held hostage."

Lestrade laughed in shock. "What?"

"Code. That was code."

"He sounded fine. Maybe you're just reading into-"

Sherlock sighed. "He's in trouble. You have to help him."

Lestrade looked up with pain in his eyes. "It's too late," he said.

Sherlock gripped his leg. "What do you mean?"

He clenched his jaw and tried to his face from Sherlock. "They're already there."


	11. Chapter 11

Shit.

The sirens.

John felt the gun press even deeper into his back. The pain raced up his spine and and it ached. But he had to stay strong. There was still a chance.

"I thought I told you to call them off."

John shook his head. "It was too late."

The man pushed him forward and John momentarily lost his footing. "This is unnecessary. I have no part in this."

There was a laugh. "You have plenty of a part in this Dr. Watson."

He gripped his fists tight to keep from panicking. "Just let me talk to them. I'll tell them to leave."

"I don't think so," the man said. "I'll just kill you here. It'd be much easier."

The man's voice was robotic in its intonation-like a mindless man just following orders. A man with little training but loyalty was easy to defeat. The passion was all mental.

Based on the angle the man held the gun against his back, it was clear that he couldn't be much taller than John. If he calculated it just right then he could make contact. It was a longshot but it was his only choice. Sherlock would be proud...well he'd proud if it worked.

In one fluid motion he stepped his foot back hard and swung his elbow back. Just as he thought, they were a similar height and their arms collided. In the confusion, the man lost focus just long enough for John to turn around and grab the man's arm. With one hand he twisted the man's arm enough to cause his fingers to release the weapon. With the other he dug his fingers into his forearm flesh which caused him to yelp in pain.

He had the gun and the man staggered in confusion and defeat. As he tried to come after John with a raised fist, John pulled the gun towards him.

"Get down."

The man put his hands up and got down on his knees.

He looked over at Mycroft who was still unconscious in the corner. His coloring had gotten more pale since John had entered the room. As much as he wanted to downplay Mycroft's condition he knew it wasn't nothing. He was injured.

Mycroft needed to get to hospital immediately. The ambulances were outside but the paramedics and police officers hadn't come inside. He imagined the message to Lestrade had come too late to stop the cars but the people themselves were told to stay conspicuous. They wouldn't know to come up.

He looked over at the man on the floor. He looked so small without his gun. His head was bowed but John could see the sneaky smile of a truly evil mind lurking in the surface.

John gestured towards Mycroft. "Pick him up."

He'd taken off his mask or it'd fallen off in the course of their scuffle. The man looked over in surprise. "What?"

"You heard me."

"No."

John pointed the gun at the man's head. "Do as I say."

"Or what?"

"I will shoot you."

The man laughed. "No you won't."

John cocked an eyebrow. "You don't believe me?"

He placed his hands against his thighs in a further physical attempt to show how not enthused he was with John's plan. "I don't."

It was then that he launched from his kneeled position with a shiny object in his hand. John didn't need to know what it was-it didn't matter one bit. He steadied the gun and shot it at the man's leg as he jumped.

The man fell in a heap in front of him and the small knife fell beside him.

"Shit!" the man screamed. "You shot me."

John gestured towards Mycroft. "I'm taking him with me. You get up again, I won't aim for your leg, you understand?"

* * *

"Shots fired!"

Lestrade shut off his radio a second too late.

He looked over at Sherlock whose face was pinned against the bars as he listened to every word of the rescue. For so long there had been nothing but waiting and then the slightest hint of a crack on the other side of the radio.

Sherlock's face as his fingers slipped down the bars of his cell.

"You don't know…" Lestrade began.

Sherlock shook his head. "He was unarmed," he said quietly.

"That doesn't mean anything."

"Lestrade don't be an idiot."

Lestrade knew that being in law enforcement it was safe to expect the expected. When there is a shot it usually the bad man with the gun shooting the good guy without a weapon. Rarely does Batman come in and change the course of justice.

"Don't lose hope."

Sherlock walked back toward his bench and collapsed onto it as he held his head in his hands.

"Sherlock?"

As he went to grab the keys to join Sherlock in his cell, the radio sounded again.

"Hospital calling."

Lestrade went to quiet the broadcast but Sherlock's ears were already perked. There was no point in hiding it. "Yes?"

"Hudson's touch and go. Ready to revise the charge, eh?"

He wanted to strangle the officer on the end of the line. He'd been one of many who'd lost promotions and raises because they'd missed information that Sherlock had found. It was their fault that they weren't good enough.

"Hey," he barked. "Be professional."

There was silence at the other end.

He heard a whimper from the cell. "What do they mean, touch and go?"

The voice on the other end of the radio had changed to a female who he didn't quite recognize. "Lungs are damaged, sir. They have her on a ventilator."

"Jesus…"

"Would you like them to call you directly with updates?"

He looked over at Sherlock. "Yes that would be good."

As he stuffed his radio back in his pocket, he heard gasps from across the room. Sherlock's head was pressed against the wall and his hand was pressed hard against his chest. Every breath he took wheezed and rattled.

"Sherlock?"

Lestrade grabbed the keys from the drawer and ran to the cell.

Sherlock was pale and he shook as he tried to breath. "Are you all right?"

He shook his head as he pressed his eyes tight. Each breath seemed harder and harder for him to take in.

"What is it? Your chest?"

He nodded. Sherlock's hand groped all over the bench until it made contact with Lestrade. Sherlock squeezed his hand so tight that he felt his bones might snap.

"Can you breathe?"

Sherlock shook his head. His entire body heaved as he tried to take another breath.

"Dizzy," he groaned.

"Let me get someone," Lestrade said.

Sherlock shook his head. "Don't go."

Lestrade, with his spare hand, reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone. His heart beat so hard it was hard to register the number for the front desk. As he waited for the phone to be answered, he felt Sherlock's grip suddenly lessen to nearly nothing.

"I need medical personnel."

Lestrade shouted into the phone as he attempted to catch Sherlock before he collapsed to the floor. "Shit," he mumbled as he let the phone fall from his hand.

He lowered Sherlock onto his back. "C'mon, mate."

Sherlock was still conscious, but just barely. "Lestrade…" he said barely above a whisper. "They're...they're all gone."

Lestrade crouched in front of him and placed his hand on Sherlock's chest. "They're coming to help you."

He nodded. Sherlock's eyes filled with tears as he looked at Lestrade with desperation. "Don't go."

"I won't. I'm not going anywhere."

The radio came back on with a rush of static.

"Dr. Watson's out!" the voice screamed. "He's got someone with him."

Lestrade wanted to laugh. Of course.

"No injuries on Watson. Medical personnel dispatched."

Lestrade rubbed Sherlock's arm. "You hear that?"

He nodded. There was a hint of a smile. "John…"

* * *

It had been months since she'd left the house. At first it just out of convenience. There were enough groceries to last for a spell and she didn't need to spend the money on gas. It was just easier to not bother leaving the house and getting all the stares from women who thought they knew better.

She'd spent hundreds of dollars of concealers and products to hide the bruises but they were never really hidden. Even under the sunglasses, the checkout woman or the women in her book club would cast a sideways glance and make that shake of the head that showed how weak she truly was.

So many times she'd thought about leaving. Every time she got close to packing her things and going, something stopped her. There was always an excuse but ultimately she knew what is was-the fear was what kept her. If she was living with Jasper, she could keep an eye on him. She knew him. If she left then she'd be alone.

No, she would just need to suffer through his anger. That was what she had brought upon herself.

As the afternoon rolled into evening, Martha poured herself her fifth cup of tea and watched as the news flickered from weather to sports. She brought the spicy concoction to her lips and sniffed in the aroma. The spice burst into her muscles and she felt her body expand and ignite. It felt spectacular.

Just as she took her first sip, the doorbell rang. Instinctively she turned off both the TV and the lamp to give the impression that she wasn't home but that didn't fool her visitor. It was far too early for Jasper to be home.

She took small silent steps to the door and peeked through the peephole.

Immediately she smiled.

"Mrs. Hudson, you busy?" Sherlock asked.

It had been far too long since she'd spoken to the boy. She opened the door just a crack so she wouldn't see the cluttered state she'd left her home in. "What is it?"

He smiled. It was an honest to goodness grin. It looked unnatural on his otherwise sullen face but there was a lightness to his eyes. "I have a surprise for you," he said.

"What? For me?"

He nodded and pointed towards his house. "Come over."

She pulled at her housecoat to cover herself. "Oh no. I'm not dressed."

"It's just a little gift."

She didn't want to go out. Heavens, her face. She hadn't put on any makeup and the bruises were still healing. They were brown and ugly across her cheek. But he didn't make any mention of it. He looked her dead in the eyes as he spoke. "I don't know…"

He placed a gentle hand on her arm. "C'mon," he said.

She felt safe around him. Ever since he'd begun secondary school, he'd sprouted into an adult. He was much taller than her and had a commanding presence that came with his height. It wasn't the little boy in front of her anymore but it was a welcome change.

"Just a moment," she said.

He smiled again. "Absolutely."

They walked across the street with his arm linked with hers. It was an oddly intimate gesture for him but she loved it. It made her feel like a proper princess.

As they walked inside, she immediately smelled apples and cinnamon.

"Smells lovely!" she said.

Sherlock stripped off his coat and placed it on the hanger. "Keep going. It's in the kitchen."

She could hardly believe her eyes as she stepped in the kitchen. The lights were out and there were candles lit all along the room and on the table. On the counter were two apple pies, a tray with steaming cups and small bowls of strawberry ice cream. It was a beautiful display.

"Sherlock, what is this?"

He looked at her with curiosity. "Your birthday. I wanted to get you something."

Birthday? Jesus. She'd forgotten. "Oh my. You shouldn't have."

He gestured towards an ornate chair at the head of the table. "Take a seat."

She sat down and immediately couldn't help but crying. As Sherlock brought over the pie, her favorite flavor, and set it front of her, he noticed her tears. "Why are you crying?"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. It's so beautiful."

He smiled and kissed her on the top of the head. "You deserve it."

"I don't," she said with a laugh.

Sherlock set the pie down with a hint of anger and grabbed his own chair. He pulled it up next to her. He pointed to his own cheek, where her bruises still sat. " _That_  you don't deserve."

She smiled.

"You deserve all the pie in the world," he said.

He grabbed a knife and cut her a large slice. "And I got your favorite tea. The cinnamon one, correct?"

She nodded as she swallowed back the tears.

He set the cup in front of her.

"Happy birthday, Mrs. Hudson."

She had never had a meal that tasted so delicious.


	12. Chapter 12

It felt like an eternity before they let him go back to the station. John used every favor and every connection to be allowed to do the massive amount of questioning that lay ahead back at the station and not in the middle of Mycroft's lawn. All he wanted was to have a chair to sit in, a cup of coffee and to see Sherlock.

As he walked into the station, he felt the tension immediately. Officers sat at their desks and peered up as he moved past. There was a knowledge in their eyes-they knew something he didn't. Whenever he looked over their eyes flitted back to their work.

"What's going on?" he asked the officer who was leading him back to Sherlock.

She didn't answer.

John's heart raced as he heard medical terminology being shouted from the holding cells. He picked up the pace and moved in front of the officer and towards Sherlock.

"Oh my god," he said quietly as he got to the room.

Lestrade immediately spun around and looked at him with a worn expression. "John," he said with a hint of a smile.

"What happened?" he said, his voice straining as he attempted to not reveal how scared he was.

Sherlock was on the ground of his cell on his back with his arm raised as the paramedic took his blood pressure. He was pale and his skin was dry and chalky. Clearly he was dehydrated and hungry and in dire need of rest. As the paramedic read out to the blood pressure to his partner it was also clear that Sherlock was in the midst of a panic attack. His blood pressure was far too high, especially for someone already so compromised.

He looked so small on the ground. They'd taken off his coat and tossed it against the wall. His shirt was rumpled and untucked and his hair was a wild mess. He looked like he'd been thrown in the dryer and tossed around for a few cycles.

"After we got the call about the shots fired," Lestrade said, "he had trouble breathing."

John clenched his jaw to keep from shouting. "Why did he hear that?"

"I've been in here," Lestrade said. It came much more condescending than he'd intended which just made John more infuriated.

"I've been at the hospital. I can't be in two places at once," he said with a bite.

Lestrade shook his head. "John, please, that's not what I meant. I mean that he needed someone in here and no one else really wanted the job."

John took a deep soothing breath. "Sorry. I'm just...it's been a long day."

"I know," Lestrade said. "We're trying to get this sorted out. I feel like we're almost there."

"Any news on Mrs. Hudson?" he asked. His phone had been lost in the scuffle at Mycroft's and he hadn't had a chance to go back for it.

Lestrade looked away.

"Oh no," John said. "Did she-?"

His eyes snapped back. "Ventilator, they said. Touch and go."

John looked over at Sherlock who was being moved to a seated position. "Does he know?"

Lestrade nodded.

"How'd he take it?"

Lestrade gave a mournful smile. "How do you think?"

John watched as the paramedics packed up their things and walked away from the huddled man in the corner. They immediately walked up to Lestrade with neutral robotic expressions and then peered over at John skeptically.

"He's allowed," Lestrade said. "What's going on?"

The smaller of the two was clearly in charge. He hoisted his shoulders back and readied himself for his moment to shine. "Major anxiety episode. Elevated blood pressure and heart rate. He complained of dizziness which is symptomatic but he is also dehydrated-I would recommend fluids. Just keep an eye on him."

Keep an eye on him? John wanted to laugh. It was the advice of a preschool teacher to her pupils. An anxiety attack was not as mild as they were implying. John knew how devastating it was to his body and how depleted he would feel after an episode. If Sherlock was already as weak as he looked then the pain would be devastating.

"Can I go talk to him?" John asked Lestrade, ignoring the stoic paramedics.

Lestrade looked over briefly for permission but nodded before they spoke.

John walked into the cell with quiet steps and sat down next to Sherlock.

Sherlock was still conscious but it was clear that he wasn't strong. His eyes were nearly closed and he looked over at John with a long delayed reaction.

"John!" he said with a smile.

"Yeah," John said, "I'm here."

"I'm glad."

John moved a bit closer. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Head hurts."

"I bet," he said. "You should have some water. You're probably dehydrated."

Sherlock shook his head.

"You have to have water," John said.

"Slows me down," Sherlock said.

"Dehydration will slow you down more. Let me get you some. You'll feel much better."

John began to get up but Sherlock tossed his arm over in an attempt to stop him from going. "Don't go," he pleaded.

There was such earnestness in his voice. He'd never heard a sound so small come from Sherlock. It took him back. "Okay," he said with surprise as he sat back down.

"She's sick," Sherlock said as his voice cracked.

"I know. But she has the best people working on her."

He bowed his head. "Why is she...why is she...why..."

Sherlock's shoulders began to slump and his eyes fluttered closed. John nudged Sherlock awake. He sat up in a start.

"Sherlock, you have to eat something. You're delirious."

"Delirious?" he said with a smile. "Doubtful."

John grabbed the small pick of peanuts that the officer had given him after he complained of how hungry he was while they drove to the station. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and stuffed the bag inside. "Eat these."

Sherlock clenched his hand over the peanuts and tossed them on the ground. "Stop making me eat," he said.

"Making you eat? You haven't eaten all day. You just had a panic attack. You understand that is taxing on your body. Food is how you get stronger." John leaned over and grabbed the peanuts from the floor and put them back in Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock grimaced. "Where have you been?"

"Been? You know where I've been." He was delirious. John just had to keep reminding himself that he wasn't in his right mind.

"I've been here all day."

"I know," John said, "and I've been at the hospital. You know that."

Sherlock looked at the peanut bag with fury and kicked it away.

"Stop that," John said.

Sherlock crossed his arms. "No."

"It's like dealing with a child," John said under his breath as he crawled to grab the peanuts and stuffed them back in his pocket.

Sherlock turned his head away.

"Are you not speaking with me now?" John asked.

Silent treatment. Just what he needed.

"Do you want me to go now?"

There was still the questioning that he'd have to trudge through. This little detour was his reward. What a reward.

Sherlock's hand shook as he attempted to appear brave. It was an after-effect of the attack but it was still worrisome. He'd never seen that in Sherlock before. A few more hours in this state and he'd be in the hospital with more problems than whether to eat peanuts or not.

"Who did you shoot?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

Sherlock snapped his head back. "You heard me. Who do you shoot? At Mycroft's."

"I don't know," John said. "I really don't."

"But it was...it...who hurt Mycroft?"

"I'm not sure." He genuinely didn't know. He could assume but an assumption was useless at this point.

Sherlock scowled. "Where is he?"

"The man?"

His eyes grew wide and desperate. "Yes! Of course!"

John didn't want to say. He wanted so badly to lie but he could never lie to Sherlock. "He got away."

Every muscle in Sherlock's body tensed. "What?"

"I had to help Mycroft."

"You...you let...him go?" he said as he gasped for breath.

John didn't want to panic Sherlock but he watched as his wheezed and coughed in nervous anticipation. "I didn't have a choice."

"Choice...always a choice."

Sherlock clutched his chest and pressed his head against the wall. He had been in the midst of his anxiety attack even as they spoke and had gone to great lengths to hide it. John should have expected as much.

"Lie down," John said.

Sherlock batted him away. "Don't touch me."

"Stop it," John said as he put a finger to Sherlock's neck for a pulse.

"He...Mrs. Hudson...would've...saved me," he said as he clutched his leg and winced through the pain of breathing.

John wanted to cry and scream as he forced Sherlock to lie down. He was so weak that it was hard for John to get him down. He placed a hand on Sherlock's chest and with the other took his hand.

"Just squeeze my hand when it hurts."

Sherlock's fingernails dug into John's palm.

"Try to relax your muscles one by one. Start with your feet and work up," John said.

Sherlock's eyes darted around the room.

"Focus," John said. "Listen to my voice. You're safe. You'll be okay. Just relax your muscles and this will stop hurting."

He sat there for fifteen minutes speaking in the softest voice he could muster as Sherlock finally stopped gasping and could speak and breathe normally. He was spent and exhausted. Somehow he'd convinced him to sit on the cot and rest his head with the promise that, by no means, did that mean he needed to sleep.

John left two minutes later with Sherlock snoring in the corner.

Lestrade looked on in marvel. "How…"

John shrugged. "I have no idea. Just keep an eye on him for me, okay?"

"Of course," Lestrade said. "Of course."

* * *

Martha had started off slow. First it was spending ten minutes in her front yard, and then an hour. Then it was walking to the mailbox and then a few houses down the way. It was hard but she was able to walk the block without the fear taking over. For the first time in months she was on a walk, a good long walk, and it felt liberating. She strutted and strode down Cherry Rd. and took a right down Marygold Way without thinking about exactly how far she was from home.

Jasper had been quiet the last few weeks. He'd gotten a new job at an insurance firm downtown which kept him busy. His coworkers were old friends from secondary school and they kept him out at the pub until late every night. Even though he stumbled in drunk, it was always after she was asleep and he was too drunk to fight. It was an imperfect partnership but it was, at the moment, at a fragile balance and she didn't dare disrupt the small glimmer of peace.

As the sunset over Mabel Drive, she heard a whine of a sirens in the distance. It pierced through the chirping birds and lawnmowers. There were so rarely any emergency vehicles in the area that she grew intensely curious as they got louder and louder and the noise seemed to follow her as she near to her house.

She made her assumptions as she walked past the houses she knew all too well. More than likely it was the Trent's at the end of the block. The oldest son, Bradley, was not a nice boy. He could easily be mixed up in drugs or something equally delinquent. Or it could be the Vicar's on the other end of the street. The father, Craig, never seemed to go to work but they had a beautiful home and such exquisite vehicles. If there was anyone mixed up in something, it would be Craig Vicar.

The police cars came up behind her and quickly overpowered her. Two cars rushed past her and down her street.

She watched in anticipation. Which would it be? Trent's or Vicar's?

And then they stopped.

In front the Holmes.

Her stomach clenched as she sped down the street.

Police. That meant no one was hurt. At least there was that comfort.

As she got closer, she heard nothing but quiet. It least if there was shouting there would be a hint. Martha held her breath as she got to her own front lawn and sat on the stoop and just watched. She didn't care if they had a problem with her. It hurt just to see those flashing lights so close to her own home.

"Please be okay," she said quietly to herself.

The curtains were open in the living room and she could see the outline of Gregory as he spoke animatedly to one of the officers. She scanned the rest of the house for a trace of Sherlock.

Where was he?

She clenched her fists and tapped her foot slow quickly she thought she might drill a hole in the ground.

An officer walked out of the house and gestured towards the front yard. Following behind him was Sherlock. His shoulders were hunched and his eyes were down on the ground. The officer looked behind the boy nervously and spoke something into his radio. It was then that he leaned in and spoke to Sherlock in a way that she could only describe as sweet. For such a young man, he had such a doting body language that seemed to relax Sherlock as they spoke in the yard.

She could tell he was hurt. It wasn't obviously or even noticeable to someone who didn't know the boy. Over the years she'd come to know the little ticks and contortions of his body when he was injured and bruised but wanted to hide it. It was how he held himself, just a little tighter and controlled than usual.

It was his abdomen. His arm was against his side which allowed him to lean into his own weight. As he spoke his mouth barely opened which meant he was holding back his pain.

But why was he hiding?

The officer kept talking but Sherlock seemed to reply back less and less. He pulled back. The officer seemed frustrated. His body language went from open and caring to closed and distant.

"Talk to him," she said. "Sherlock, tell them what's wrong."

The officer walked away and looked annoyed. He shook his head and raised his hand in defeat to his partner.

"No," she said. "Don't leave."

Sherlock slowly relaxed his arm and winced as shifted his weight. No one was watching. No one saw it.

Except her.

The officer that spoke to Gregory left the house soon after.

She watched in horror as they went towards their cars. She couldn't stop herself. Before she knew it, she was halfway across the street. Her mind went blank as she walked right up to the young officer.

"Ma'am?" he asked, surprised at her sudden appearance.

She didn't know what to say. He smiled at her but the patience seemed to quickly wear thin. "Are you leaving?"

He looked over at his partner. "Yes, ma'am. Is there a problem?"

She crossed her arms and pressed them tight against her chest. "You need to arrest him."

He bowed his head. "Ma'am, I understand but we have proced-"

"He's a monster," she said.

"Ma'am…" he put a hand on her shoulder.

She looked at him and hoped he would do something but she knew he couldn't.

"Please," she pleaded.

He moved in closer. "I can't. He won't...he won't talk to me. I can't do anything."

"Why?"

He sighed. "Believe me," he said. "I want to. He won't say his father did anything. He denies it all."

She looked over at Sherlock who had collapsed into the bench against the side of the house. She pointed at the clearly injured boy. "He's hurt. Can't you see that?"

"He won't come with us. He says he fell at school."

"And you believe him?" she asked.

"Of course not," he said, "but without a statement from him, my hands are tied."

She choked back the tears. This was his shot. He could have gotten away and yet he stayed. This was her fault. What kind of example had she set for him?

The officer's partner gestured for him to go.

"Greg!" the voice shouted.

She wiped away a tear. "What if he talks? What if he's willing to speak to you?"

He shook his head. "Maybe. If he is willing."

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you for trying."

He took her hand in his. "Of course. Just call for Greg Lestrade if you get anywhere. I really...I want to help."

He left shortly thereafter and Sherlock still sat on the bench. Gregory was nowhere in sight but it was only a matter of time before he reappeared. She walked the perimeter of the house and sat down on the bench next to him.

She didn't bother to ask about the injury-the response was always the same.

I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. Don't worry about it.

Instead she just got in close and put her arm around him.

"You deserve better," she said.

She gave him a kiss on the top of the head.

"We both do."


	13. Chapter 13

Idiot.

Stupid John.

So simple. He wanted to see what he wanted to see. All John wanted to do was to fix him. A panic attack. Such a sentimental solution.

He wanted to rescue the broken man who was lost in grief and he was proud to cure him with a few kind words and a rub of the back. It took so little to get him to leave. Even Lestrade left eventually. It was all in the comfort that their damaged bird was in the calming embrace of sleep.

The moment they'd left, he sat up. Sleep was a waste. What was the point. He couldn't see an end in sight. John had let the man go and, even if they caught him, the likelihood they could connect him to Mrs. Hudson was unlikely if not impossible.

It was Moriarty, it had to be. The crime scene was meticulous. Fingerprints and blood were hard to disprove. He'd gotten in an argument with Mrs. Hudson that morning and John would admit to it under interrogation. Every person in the station would take no shortcuts to make sure he suffered. Lestrade could only do so much.

There was no point.

He couldn't see an end in sight.

So tired.

He rested his head against the wall and breathed through the pain. The longer he held out on water the easier it would be incite another attack. He was not going to live his life in a cell. He was not going to be in a prison until he was an old man.

John and Lestrade could say whatever they wanted but it was a lost cause. While he trapped in the cell he couldn't do what he did best. They would never allow him to be involved in the case.

His mind was clouded. He couldn't think. It hurt too much to think.

Those faces. They knew it was over.

He couldn't do it anymore. It hurt too much.

The longer he held out, the more it ached. Every time he moved he felt his heart flutter in his chest. His head swam as oxygen struggled to power his body. For the last few years, since he'd met John, he'd kept it under control. For so long his condition was a time bomb that he saw no reason to not set off. But John was worth sticking around for.

But no longer.

He let the dizziness take hold and rode the wave of nausea and tightness in his chest. They couldn't stop him from taking control of his own life. Even John wouldn't realize that he'd decided he wasn't going to live the rest of his life behind bars.

It was only a matter of time before his heart was beyond repair. They'd find him on the ground and it would be too late.

As he felt the weakness take hold of his body he looked towards the door.

"I'm sorry, John," he said quietly. "I have to...you have to understand."

He pulled his knees to his chest.

"It's my only choice."

* * *

Martha was right.

He had to get away. The bruises, the cuts, the broken bones meant nothing. They were easily explained. His father never said explicitly what would happen if he spoke up but it was clear it would end badly. Mycroft had offered to take him in but the more others wanted to take him the more that his father wanted him all for himself.

The beatings had only gotten worse. It was a daily occurrence whether he warranted it or not. His father had his hours cut and was home more and more frequently. Sherlock stayed away from home as long as possible but eventually he'd have to return. There were days that he wouldn't walk through the door until ten at night after the coffee shop down the street closed and his father would be waiting.

He couldn't do it anymore. His abdomen ached consistently between the bruises from the shoves into tables and chairs and the broken ribs from the argument a few weeks back. He was not allowed to go to the hospital since his father forbid it. Whenever he complained of pain from his broken ribs he was told to get over it and act like a man.

There was nothing he could control.

That is, there was next to nothing.

It had been three days since he'd eaten. The first day was difficult but quickly his energy spiked as he got excited for what this meant. It wouldn't be long before the school officials would have to report they were concerned. It would be legal and official. They would send him to the hospital for tests. There would be documentation. They'd let him go with Mycroft.

It had to work.

He put the food in front of Sherlock.

"Eat it," his father snapped.

Sherlock moved his seat back and turned his head. Even after coming in at ten-thirty, his father had a plate of cold mashed potatoes on the table. They'd been sitting at the table for almost half an hour. He could see his father was about to snap but this time Sherlock wasn't going to give in.

"Eat it or I will make you eat it."

He began to get out of his seat and got halfway up before his father grabbed him by both shoulders and stuffed him back in the chair. Normally he was stronger than his father-which contributed to the man's broken jaw and fractured collarbone-but a week of not eating had made him weak. He was no match.

"I'm not hungry."

His father's voice lowered to a growl. "I know what you're doing. You are not going to embarass our family. You will not!" he shouted.

"Me embarrass our family?" Sherlock said with a laugh.

His father kicked the leg of the chair. "Shut the hell up."

Sherlock tried to get up again but he was pushed back down.

"I'm not hungry!" he shouted as he batted his father's hands away.

His father grabbed the fork and slammed it into the potatoes. "You have five seconds."

"Or what?"

Nothing needed to be said. He just wanted hear his father say it.

"Five."

He looked at the fork.

"Four."

No.

"Three."

Never.

"Two."

He sat back.

"One."

Crossed his arms.

"Zero."

His father, with one arm, pinned Sherlock's entire chest to the back of the chair. He was tethered to the seat. With the other he took the fork and filled with a giant bite of potato. The fork flew at his face and Sherlock held his lips tight. The sharp prongs stabbed his lips but he kept his mouth shut.

His father moved his arm down and pressed against the ribs that he'd broken the week before. Sherlock screamed in pain and the food was stuffed in his mouth. He choked on the sticky concoction as it stuck to his throat.

"We can do it like this or you can do it your own goddamn self."

He bowed his head. Don't give in, Sherlock. This is your ticket. He'll get tired.

"I can do this all night," his father said.

Sherlock sat at the table for ten agonizing minutes as another seven forkfuls of potatoes were forced in his mouth. The longer he sat and stayed passive, the less pleasure his father got from the spectacle. Eventually he just left.

The plate sat and mocked him as his father sulked away his bedroom. Sherlock's entire body ached as he tried to calm himself.

He'd done it.

The small bites wouldn't make a dent.

He'd stood up to him.

As he took a long sip of water, he embraced the dizziness.

It was a sign of victory.

* * *

John tapped his foot wildly as the detective asked the same question for the fiftieth time.

"And can you describe him?"

John sighed. "I told you…"

"Any distinctive markings."

"I told you.."

The detective scowled. "Dr. Watson, please. We're just trying to-"

Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

He wanted to go. This was a waste of time. The people out there needed him. Mrs. Hudson was alone and Sherlock was in pain.

He was all they had.

The door opened and another officer peeked his head around the corner. "They got him."

John's detective's face lit up. "Are you sure?"

"I need an ID. He ready?"

John jumped up and headed towards the door. "Yes! Let me."

The questioning was moot if they had a man in custody.

It took half a second for John to feel his entire body tense at the sight of the man he'd shot in the leg. He couldn't control his visceral reaction to the coward that had nearly killed him.

"Him…" he said.

The officer dragged him away. "Not yet."

"But that's him!"

"Dr. Watson, you need to calm down."

He couldn't control his anger. This man had hurt Mycroft, nearly killed him and most definitely was the one who attacked Mrs. Hudson. John broke away from the officer's grip and ran towards the man as he sat waiting to be fingerprinted.

"You bastard!" John shouted as he ran towards him.

He wanted to kill him. This man was slowly killing his best friend and had put people he loved in the hospital.

John raised a fist and nearly made contact before he was flanked by two large officers who grabbed him and pulled him to the ground. "Let me go!" he screamed.

He felt their fingers dig into his back as he tried calm down.

This man needed to pay.

For Sherlock's sake, he needed to pay.


	14. Chapter 14

There was shouting in the hallway. Sherlock gripped the bars and held his breath. He hated not knowing. His throat ached as he tried to shout for someone to come in the room and tell him.

Maybe a little water wouldn't hurt. Just a sip.

An officer he recognized from a number of crime scenes walked through the door. He made a show of not looking toward Sherlock. His shirt was carefully tucked in and his tie clipped into place. Sherlock hardly interacted with the man but he knew that he was recently engaged to a woman he imagined was in the service industry. He'd have to take a better look at his tie clips to be sure.

"Hello?" Sherlock said as the man rummaged through a pile of papers on the table against the wall.

He ignored him.

"Hello?" he said a bit louder.

The man looked up at him for a moment. "What is it?" he snapped.

Sherlock pointed towards the hallway. "What happened?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," he said.

Sherlock looked at him with desperation. "Tell me, please."

The man shook his head with a self-righteous smile. "I don't think so."

"Why?" he asked quietly. He felt his chest tighten as he tried to move across his cell. He was in a danger zone. If he wanted to hold out a bit longer he would need to be careful.

The man dropped the papers and took a few steps over to Sherlock. "Why? You know want to know why? Because you have ruined my goddamn life, that's why."

Sherlock stared at him with confusion. "I don't even know you."

The man slapped his leg. "You don't?" he stammered. "Of course you wouldn't. Sherlock Holmes just runs onto crime scenes, works miracles, and skates away like a goddamn fairy princess. You know how that makes me look? That I have to rely on you to do my job?"

"I...don't know…"

The man moved in closer. Sherlock could smell the acrid aroma of coffee on his breath. "You sure as hell don't know. I lost a promotion. Shit. I lost all my promotions. I've been in this department for five years and I haven't gotten a raise since you started showing up on my scenes."

Sherlock coughed as he tried to speak. His throat clenched as he tried to gasp for air. The man tried to maintain his level of indignation but he still asked. "What's wrong with you?"

His held the bars for dear life just to keep from falling to the ground. "Water," he gasped as he tried to stand up.

The man turned around and grabbed a cup of water and filled it from the cooler. As he walked back, he saw Sherlock had regained his footing and looked, at least to him, like he was all better. It was a rouse. Sherlock could barely keep his eyes open but this man hated him enough. He would never answer any questions if he thought Sherlock was ill.

But Sherlock had played the game wrong. The man had the cup and put it nearly up to the bars. Sherlock went to grab it and the man turned it over. The water spilled onto the ground and splashed onto the concrete floor.

Sherlock coughed again. The coughs echoed in his chest and made his muscles gnaw and ache. "Is John okay?" he asked.

"John? Jesus, that idiot. No, he's in the interrogation room. He tried to attack that guy who beat up your brother."

"They found him?" Sherlock gasped.

"Yup," the man said as he threw the cup across the room, "but he isn't talking. Sounds like you're going to be in here for a long time, asshole."

Sherlock looked into his eyes for just the slightest hint of sympathy. "I didn't do it," he said.

The man grabbed the bars and pulled his head in close to Sherlock's. "You know what? I really don't give a shit if you did it or not."

"I didn't…" he said as his voice choked with tears.

"And when the old lady dies you'll be on for murder. Oh man, I have had a bloody brilliant time reading what your father said the trial. It's like poetry…"

"You have that?" he said as his chest grew tighter. The room began to shake and spin all around him.

"Oh yes. Been going around the office.  _Mentally unstable. Danger to others. Selfish and manipulative_. Your own father? That  **must**  have hurt, eh?"

The trial. He hadn't thought of that in years. "Stop," he said as he felt his legs begin to give out underneath him.

" _Cruel boy. Completely alone._  Ouch," the man said with glee. Sherlock could hear still his father say those words with such righteousness. It made him feel nauseous at the very thought of sitting in that courtroom with all those judgmental eyes boring holes into him.

He couldn't stand any longer. Sherlock fell against the wall as the room spun around him.

"What's going on?" the man shouted. He could hear the frantically clanging of keys into the cell.

He felt his heart flutter in his chest. Each beat was weaker than the next. He felt his body slow as the oxygen supply quickly ran low.

"Something's wrong…" was all he could say as he felt his legs give out and he fell to the ground of his cell.

* * *

"Something's what?"

Sherlock's gym coach looked at him with jaded concern of a man who'd heard every excuse in the book.

Sherlock had spent the entire day in pain. Four weeks of near starvation had turned him into a pale husk of who he used to be. Even so, his grades had not slipped and he hadn't missed a day of school. This wasn't a punishment for anyone but his father. As hard as it was to write research papers when he hardly had the energy to breathe much less read an encyclopedia, he needed to stay on top of his life.

That was until Wednesday when he woke up with a pain in his side. It began as just an ache. He'd figured it was a pulled muscle from sleeping on his side. He didn't think anything of it until the pain grew until it ran down his entire left arm and across his chest. As he tried to take his chemistry exam he could hardly write since every bit of pressure onto those muscles sent a burning pain through his whole body.

After lunch he felt his chest begin to tightened. As he walked to gym class he could hardly stand. Every bit of his body hurt and he could barely stand. He leaned on the badminton racket just to keep from falling to the ground.

"I think something's wrong," Sherlock said.

He'd lost thirty pounds in the last month. Under his layers of clothes it was noticeable but not shocking. A few teachers had made a comment or two about his new look but no one appeared concerned. He knew that if he just kept going then something would happen.

This wasn't what he meant.

"Something...what are you talking about?"

He pointed his at his arm and his chest. "It hurts so bad."

"Where?" the man said.

Sherlock took a deep breath to keep from throwing up. "My chest," he said. "It really hurts."

He felt his entire body grow cold. His coach looked at him with concern. "Jesus. You are looking pale. Sit down, will you?"

Sherlock looked at the benches against the wall. They may as well been a mile away. "I...can't," he said in between the squeezing pain he felt his chest.

"Okay. Put your arm around my shoulder, all right?"

Sherlock did as he was told and his coach dragged him to the benches. He heard snickering and murmurs all around him as the other boys found great hilarity in their ill classmate.

"Shut up," the coach said to his students as he sat Sherlock down.

They snapped back to their badminton games.

Coach knelt in front of Sherlock and snapped his fingers to get his attention. "Eh, you gotta stay awake, mate. You want me to get the nurse?"

He nodded as he felt a wave of dizziness take over. Sherlock lurched forward and grabbed his coach to keep from falling.

"Keller! Vanto! Get the nurse! Hurry!" the coach shouted as he turned his attention to Sherlock.

"You're going be okay," he said.

Sherlock nodded but the ache his chest told a different story. He'd never felt anything like it. He tried to breathe but it was harder and harder to force the air inside. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was anywhere else.

Then the truck hit him. There was a bolt of pain that ran down his spine and down to his feet. He tried to breathe but he couldn't. His entire body felt paralyzed as he grabbed desperately for his coach. One moment he was in the gym, the next there was darkness.

* * *

John was inside the captain's office ready to be chastised for his poor behavior. He knew they wouldn't arrest him but they could waste more of his time by disciplining him for hitting a wanted criminal.

Idiots. All of them.

"Is...doctor? Is Watson here?"

A breathless man ran out in the hall. He was in absolute panic. John jumped to his feet and ran out into the hall. "What's going on?"

It was Evans. They'd worked together on dozens of cases. Nice man. Fiancee was in jewelry sales. Sweet woman. They'd invited him over for dinner. Well they'd invited Sherlock as well but he decided that dinner was a waste of time when there were coagulation experiments left to do.

"Sherlock," he gasped. "He's...I don't know."

He didn't need to hear another word. John ran after Evans and into the holding area.

Evans stood at the door, shaking. "His lips are turning blue. I didn't know what to do."

"Oh my god," John said as he saw the sheet white body on the ground. He looked dead. John didn't want to step nearer. He'd seen too many corpses…

No.

Get it together.

He took a deep breath and ran to Sherlock's side. With as steady a hand as he could muster he took a pulse.

There was just the slightest quiver.

"Get the...get the paddles from the wall."

Evans looked at him with confusion. "The what?"

John pointed at the defibrillator encased in the emergency glass. "Over there! Hurry!"

If he had just collapsed then it was an electrical issue. Sherlock had gone so long without liquids or food. His heart had lost the ability to fire correctly. He prayed that was all this was.

Evans dumped the box on the ground and John tore out its contents.

"Open his shirt," John said as he took out the pads.

Evans did as he was told and John stuck the pads on Sherlock's chest and charged up the machine.

"Move back," John said.

Evans fell to the ground and stared as John pressed the button.

Sherlock's body jumped as the electricity coursed through him. John felt for a pulse.

Still not normal. It was irregular. Sherlock couldn't survive this way much longer.

He shocked him again.

Sherlock's color stayed a chalky white and his lips grew pale and gray as the oxygen in his blood decreased to nearly nothing.

"C'mon," John said as he shocked him a third time. "Stay with me."

He didn't have time to be scared. If he thought for a moment about what he was doing then he'd fall apart. His only friend lay nearly dead at his feet. This was his only chance.

"Damn it, Sherlock."

He wanted to scream. This wasn't happening.

"Don't...don't do this."

On the fourth shock, he felt something.

Sherlock's lips quivered and the grayish hue seemed to fade away. John felt his neck and felt it.

A pulse.

A normal pulse.

He fell back onto the floor and took a deep breath. "He's got a pulse."

Evans looked at him with exhausted relief. "Yeah?"

"He needs to get to hospital. Can...can you do that?"

Evans grabbed his phone and dialed a series of digits John didn't bother to question. He sat on the ground with a still lifeless Sherlock at his feet. This wasn't how this was supposed to be. He couldn't lose him.

"Don't die on me," he said quietly as he watched Sherlock's chest rise and fall.

* * *

He wanted to talk to the police. Sherlock didn't care how many IV's were in his arm and how weak he felt, he wanted to talk. They came in nervously and looked at him with such concern. Sherlock recognized the younger one. It was the kind man from the day that the neighbors had called the police. He'd talked to Mrs. Hudson.

Maybe he'd do something.

Sherlock sat up in his bed and stared at the officers and back at his father. He'd insisted on staying in the room but they hadn't said a word since he'd woken up. As badly as he wanted the man to leave, he was in the hospital. They would protect him. This was where he could tell the truth.

The younger officer turned towards Gregory. "Sir, could you please leave for a moment?"

Gregory crossed his arm and leaned against the wall. "I don't think so."

"Sir, please."

Sherlock looked at the officer. "It's all right."

The officer didn't let up. "Mr. Holmes. I need you to exit the room."

"He is my son," Gregory said, "and I want to be here."

Sherlock could see the fear in his father's eyes.  _Good_ , he thought.  _This is what you deserve_.

"He can stay."

The officer turned back with surprise. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I'm sure."

The officer pulled out a notebook and moved closer to Sherlock. "Your doctor has given us an overview of your injuries. They're quite extensive."

Sherlock nodded.

"Two cracked ribs and seven others that have been broken in the past and healed without medical intervention. Fracture wrist. Broken fingers. Scarring on your back. Mild concussion. And now your cardiac problems."

Sherlock looked over towards his father.

"How'd you get hurt Sherlock?"

He gulped as he felt the words rattle in his head.

Just say it.

"Who hurt you?" the officer asked.

He pulled his arm out from under his sheet.

The officer looked at him expectantly. Sherlock could see him with his hands over his jacket pocket. He was ready to arrest his father. Someone was on his side. Someone wanted to help.

It gave him just enough strength to do it.

"Him," he said as he pointed towards his father.

"Sherlock!" his father bellowed. "Stop with your lies."

Sherlock shook his head. "He hurt me. He did it all," he said. It felt like a thousand pound weight off his back.

His father shook his head and stayed where he stood. "He's lying!" he said to the officers. "He doesn't know what he's talking about."

The officer moved briskly. "Gregory Holmes…"

He pulled Gregory's arms behind his back. "...you are under arrest."


	15. Chapter 15

John ran after the paramedics. He got halfway down the hall before a pair of officers stepped in front of him. "Dr. Watson, we can't let you go."

He looked at the dour young officer with a glare that could wilt flowers. "Excuse me?"

"We still have to question you."

He couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity. "You understand that Sherlock nearly died. Hell, he could be dying right now. You are bloody well letting me leave. Now get out of my way."

The officer didn't move. John's blood boiled and spilled over. "Move," he bellowed.

"No." The officer went to grab John's arm but John pulled away.

"Let me go!" he shouted.

The spectacle had attracted onlookers. John took a deep breath. Outbursts were not going to work. "I'm sorry," he said. John buried his head and put his hands out in surrender. He took a look behind him and the paramedics were just closing the back doors to the ambulance.

"Let me go," he said quietly.

"I can't."

He felt the emotions of the day weigh on his body. How he had kept it together this long was beyond him. As he looked at the officers who are stared at him like zoo exhibit, he felt the panic and uncertainty take hold.

"He's my friend," he said. "He's all I have."

His eyes filled with tears that he desperately tried to hide from this stranger.

"I know, but…"

John wiped his eyes. "Just drive me. You can ask me in the car. Just...just don't make me stay here and wait. I can't wait anymore."

"If you could just…"

He looked at the man with the most sincere expression he could muster. Every ounce of his energy had been spent. There was nothing left to give. It was all pure adrenaline and grief that fueled him. "I have to be there for him. He needs me."

It had been too long since a life was in his hands. That wasn't the man that he was anymore. He wasn't built to handle it. "If he dies and I'm not there…"

The idea broke his heart immediately. It was too much to bear. John's voice cracked he attempted to continue. As hard as he tried to swallow back the pain, it was too overwhelming. He felt the tears fall down his cheek and he didn't bother to wipe them away. It was a reminder that there was still hope. It was a sign that there was still something left to do to save the people he loved.

"Okay," the man said.

"Okay?"

The officer gestured towards his colleague. "Franklin will drive. I'll ask you questions. You can't get out of the car until we're done. Do understand?"

"Yes," he said.

The officer patted him on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, mate. I know it's rough."

There was such robotic apathy to his voice that it made it all feel so unreal. "Can we go?" John asked as he pulled himself together enough to not attract any more attention than he already had.

"If you promise-"

John nodded. "I promise."

He slammed the police car door and sprinted the fifty feet to the hospital entrance. John ran around scampering children, plodding flu patients and teenagers cradling broken arms. After nearly knocking over an elderly man on his way to the water fountain, John got to the nurse's station.

"Dr. John Watson," he said breathlessly. "One of my patients was brought in."

It was far easier to lie than to explain his real reason for being there.

The nurse at the computer looked at him with complete disinterest. He saw the ink stains on her fingers and the half-drunk cup of coffee that was clearly cold. Double shift. More specifically, the end of a double shift.

An overworked nurse was an entirely different breed and it required a careful hand.

When she didn't get his information right away, he didn't snap at her. Sherlock would have already run through the doors and grabbed her keyboard. Sure they'd have the information but everyone would hate them. As much as it killed him, Sherlock liked having someone to smooth things over. He got slapped much less often when John was around.

As hard as it was to be friendly, John smiled and put his hand lightly on the counter. Her name tag peeked out from her pocket. Heidi. She was young, no more than twenty-five, with no ring but meticulous nails and makeup.

Flirt.

Flirt like your life depends on it, Watson.

"Heidi, would you mind doing something for me?"

She turned at the sound of her name. "Hm?"

"Double shift?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes. "Nurses all caught the 'flu'" she said with air quotes. "Stuck me here all night."

"Sorry to hear that."

She smiled. "Thanks."

"Used to work in surgery," he said. "I know how it is."

His entire body ached at the wasted time. Sherlock was alone. He needed John. He needed someone who cared. "You're a doctor?"

"Yes," he said as he tapped the counter. "Actually one of my patients was just brought in. Sherlock Holmes?"

Her face fell. "Holmes?"

His voice quivered as he answered. "Yes. Where is he?"

She typed into her computer with grand disinterest. "ICU. They're holding him up there. You want me to phone them to tell them you're coming."

He was already gone.

As he ran off the elevator on the third floor, he was greeted with the wheels of a wheelchair and the bruised face of Mycroft.

"Jesus!" John said as he stopped short. Mycroft had positioned himself feet away from the elevator and was ready to pounce.

He didn't even have time to be relieved that Mycroft was all right.

"Why is he here?"

John shook his head in confusion. "How-how do you even know that they brought him in?"

"Does it even matter, John?"

He tried to move forward but Mycroft maneuvered himself to be in his way no matter what direction John turned. "Please. Just let me see what's going on."

Mycroft's eyes lowered. "You know what's going on. Tell me."

John pointed towards Mycroft's bruised eye. "Do you remember what happened...to your eye?"

"Of course I do," Mycroft said but John could hear the fear in his voice. Did he know the scope of what happened so far?

"How much have they told you?" he asked.

Mycroft scowled. "They brought me in. Said I was attacked in my home. I imagine it was a robbery. Do you know if it was?"

He simply didn't have the strength to say it all over again. "I don't," he said.

There was a long pause. John fought back the urge to tell him everything. It was too much to take in all at once.

"Is he all right?" Mycroft asked. His voice was quiet and subdued. There was fear in his eyes as he looked up at John. He wore his worry right on the surface and he stared at John like an expectant little boy at Christmas.

John sighed. Keeping a Holmes out of the loop was hard enough on a good day. If he didn't tell Mycroft now then he'd just find out another way. "He collapsed."

"He what? Is it his heart?"

John paused. "You knew about that?"

"Yes," he said in surprise, "but it hasn't been a problem in years."

John looked out at the hallway. He wanted to be in that room. Sherlock needed him. "He was under stress. I think that's what set it off. But I really need to g-"

"Stress? What stress?"

He bit his lip and swallowed down the adrenaline. "Mrs. Hudson was...she was attacked as well."

Mycroft's face sunk. "Jesus."

He didn't have the heart to tell him that Sherlock was the main suspect. The drawn look on his face said enough. "He's going to be fine. Just let me check on him."

As John tried to walk away, Mycroft grabbed his arm. "His heart...it used to be...it wasn't good." The right words seemed beyond him.

John nodded. "I guessed as much."

Mycroft touched his own chest. "He was in heart failure when he was sixteen. In the hospital for weeks."

"What?"

Mycroft rubbed his thigh in anxiety. "Abnormal heartbeat after that. Lasted for years. He was in and out the hospital quite a bit. I thought we were done with that. He was being more careful." His voice trailed off.

John smiled as he lied. "They brought him in with a strong heartbeat. It's just observation."

Mycroft knew he was lying but neither of them cared.

* * *

Martha had all her bags at the flat in London. Every day she would take a bag, put it in the car and drive the fifteen minute trek to Bakers Street. She'd place each bag in the corner of the living room. Each day the pile got bigger and she felt more and more free. Soon everything would be gone from her home and her new life could begin.

Her sister had offered her the building. It was under guise of a shrewd business deal but she knew it was out of pity. That being said, she didn't much care how she got the building. It was her ticket out of that house.

There were four bags left at the house when she got the frantic phone call from Mycroft that Sherlock had collapsed at school. He was stuck at a meeting in Belgium and couldn't get a flight until the next morning. Immediately she got in the car and spent the night at the hospital, calling Mycroft every hour with an update.

It took four hours for Gregory to finally show up. He smelt of rum and cigarettes and seemed more concerned with the police officers that milled around the waiting room than his son in the ICU. She gave him a wide berth and didn't so much as look in his direction the entire time he was there.

The next day, when Sherlock was well enough to talk, they arrested Gregory on a litany of abuse and neglect charges. Martha had restrain herself from jumping to her feet and hooting and hollering as Gregory sulked past her in handcuffs. Instead she ran to Sherlock's room and gave him the kiss of a proud mom on his cheek.

Three weeks later and he was still in the hospital. Despite the boy's medical needs, Martha knew that she couldn't stop the moving train. Jasper was out of town visiting family for the winter and she needed to be moved out before he returned.

On the first of December, the final bag entered Bakers Street. As she set it down, Martha let out a wail of such sadness and excitement that it startled her. It felt raw and inhuman.

She had done it.

She was free.

There was no forwarding address. Jasper didn't know where she was and she was keeping it that way. She set her purse on the floor, fell into the couch her sister left behind and smiled. This was her home. She didn't have to live in fear.

Freedom.

Mycroft sat in Sherlock's room and fiddled with a Post-it note that he folded and unfolded mindlessly. As Sherlock slept, they sat together in silence. She kept looking over at him as she finished her knitting but he simply stared straight ahead with darting unblinking eyes.

"Mycroft, darling?" she said finally.

His eyes snapped to attention. "Yeah?" he asked.

She set down her knitting. "What is it?"

His knee bounced up and down as he talked. She had never seen him so tense and nervous. "I have a trip. Um, I have to go on a work trip next week. And there's another after that. I just...I mean if he-" He sounded panicked and terrified.

"What are you talking about?" she asked.

He pointed to Sherlock. "I can't watch him."

Custody. She hadn't even thought of that. Sherlock was still a minor. "I see."

"I mean I can cancel one of them but these are important contacts. I just can't-"

The words came from her without a second-thought. "He can stay with me."

Mycroft looked up like a choir of angels had just graced his presence. "You what?"

"He can stay with me as long as you'd like."

He looked over at his brother with such care. "He's going to need to go to appointments…"

Martha walked over to Mycroft and placed a hand on his back. "I understand that."

There were tears in his eyes. "He has to go to school...you know he can be."

She smiled. "You boys-"

In the distance she could hear Dorothy laughing and running around the house. The noise, for a moment, was so loud and crisp is was as if her little girl was in the room with them. Slowly the giggles and thudding of tiny feet faded to the background until all she could hear was the faint sound of an IV.

"-you're my children now. I would do anything for you, you know that?"

Mycroft's face softened as he laid his head on her shoulder like Dorothy used to do when she was sad. Martha pulled him in close and held him tight. The poor guy had been through so much-everyone in his family was being pulled away from him.

"Don't worry," she said. "It would be my honor."


	16. Chapter 16

There were two officers stationed outside of Sherlock's room. With their arms crossed and their eyes darting side to side, John stood no chance of sneaking in. The moment he got close, he was stopped.

"Sir, you can't come in."

He grabbed the pass from his wallet that the hospital had given him a few years back when he did consultations. It was an old employee's ID but it was still an ID. "I work here."

"A lot of people work here, sir. We are ordered to allow no one in this room."

He had to get in there. "Just...he's my friend and I was just at the station with him. I just want to know he's all right."

The officers had not one ounce of sympathy. "I understand, sir, but our orders are-"

"Sod your orders. I work with your department. Just let me…" He began to push forward but the officers simply pushed him back.

"Sir, I am asking you to step back."

He was so close. Just beyond the door and he'd be there. He'd be able to help his friend.

John called Lestrade. It was all he had left. The final ace up his sleeve. It took all of ten seconds for the snarling dogs to become obedient and with a few words from their boss, John was inside.

He still looked dead. John didn't want to walk any further. Sherlock was pale and sallow. His eyes were sunken and his arms lay slack against his body. The monitor beat behind him. It was a steady heartbeat but he didn't want to think about how long it had taken to achieve that.

John stood above Sherlock and wanted to be angry. This man whom he'd thought he knew so well was hiding something so important. Heart failure. How could have kept that a secret? If he had known that, John would never have let him do any of the ridiculous nonsense that he let slide.

All of the days that he simply let Sherlock's quirky eating habits slide by the wayside came flooding back. There were weeks where he knew that Sherlock had spent all of three hours in bed and had supplemented his lack of energy with massive amounts of coffee and tea. What kind of damage had he done by simply not intervening?

He laid his hand on the bed, a few inches from Sherlock's arm. "Why didn't you tell me?" he said. "I would have helped you."

John blinked back the tears. Sherlock looked so weak, so far gone. He didn't want to be a doctor at that moment. Any normal person could see their friend lying on the bed and see only the best. Sure he was looking ashen now but after he got some fluids he'd be back up. It was just a matter of giving him some water and all would be back to normal.

He only wished that he could forget everything he knew. Sherlock's heart had spasmed uncontrollably. He needed to be resuscitated. Based on his coloring, he wasn't getting enough oxygen and his heartbeat was still on the slow side. The dehydration could be repaired but any irritation to an already damaged organ only escalated the process.

"You can't do this to me," he said.

"You can't leave me alone. I can't do it again. You have to wake up. Do you hear me?"

There was no life if there was no Sherlock. Every time the heart rate monitor beeped, he felt his own heart pound in his chest.

The walls of his old flat appeared all around him. At night he could hear the shouts of the people on the streets. The walls would take those noises and magnify them until that was all he could hear. The shouts, the screams. His shoulder ached as he heard the terrified shrieks of his fellow soldiers.

He couldn't do it. The loneliness of a damaged man was its most potent form. It was the pain of a man who didn't have the strength or ability to reach out. He was lost to the world, floating and reaching out but no one had the desire to pull him in. It was easier to ignore the crying man in the corner than to sit down next to him and ask him what was wrong.

Seven doctors had examined his leg and all seven knew that there was nothing the matter with it. But all seven lied to his face. He sat in front of specialist after specialist and he was told a variety of concocted reasons for why he would be experiencing pain. It was easier to agree with John than to figure out why a man shot in the arm would ask for a cane.

Sherlock didn't care about why but he cared enough to fix it.

No one else would. No one else would be able to fix this.

John let the tear fall down his cheek. "Please," he said. "I need you here. Don't do this."

He rubbed Sherlock's cold arm. "Just do this one thing for me."

* * *

Mycroft was crying.

As John exited Sherlock's room to answer his phone, he was sidelined by Mycroft weeping in the corner. The medical transport man stood by his side, his hands still on the wheelchairs looking confused and uncomfortable.

There were very few things that would bring Mycroft to tears and one of them was currently on a ventilator. Immediately John's mind went to the worst case scenario. If Mrs. Hudson was dead this changed everything.

He couldn't lose them both.

John steadied himself as he walked to Mycroft.

On one knee, he kneeled in front of the wheelchair and looked up with as much sympathy as he could muster. "What happened?"

"They….they told me what...what happened. John, you lied to me. Why did you lie to me. Why did you...they told me…" Mycroft shook his head violently as he tried to talk. The effects of whatever drugs they'd given him were slowing his brain down and dampened whatever vise he had on his emotions. Mycroft went from devastation to fury and back again as he spoke.

"Who told you?" John asked.

Mycroft's hands shook as he spoke. "They told me….Sherlock attacked her. He didn't. He attacked…no John." He looked up like a scared little boy lost in a store.

"I know," John said. "I'm doing everything I can."

"He's dying…" Mycroft said. "You lied to me."

His own face betrayed him. "He's stable now. You need to calm down." John looked up at the transport man and tried to gesture him to take the raving man away. Whatever concussion induced madness had taken hold was only making it worse.

Mycroft pawed at John's sleeves and grabbed small bits of his cuff in his clumsy fingers. "They're dying. John...you….don't let them."

John grabbed hold of Mycroft's hands and gripped them in his own. "I'm trying. But you need to relax, okay?"

Mycroft nodded but the tears still fell down his face. "My cameras…"

"Your what?"

He pointed to the ceiling. "In the...the top of the…"

"The ceiling?"

Mycroft nodded again.

"Do you have them at Bakers Street?"

Another nod.

"Where?"

"Everywhere."

He didn't need to ask why. There was no point. "I need to call Lestrade. You're sure there's cameras?"

Another nod.

He had never been more relieved in his life. He grabbed his phone and made the call that would save his friend's life, that is if he ever woke up.

* * *

He moved in three days after they let him out of the hospital. Nearly two months in and out of the ICU had allowed him the opportunity to gain back some of the weight he'd lost and the chance to let the broken bones repair themselves. He was not as strong as the other boys his age but it was a more capable teenager that stepped out of the cab on Bakers Street.

There was never a discussion about whether he would stay with Martha. The moment that Mycroft suggested the idea, it was a done deal. The boy hardly smiled anymore but she could see he was relieved to have some degree of stability back in his life.

During his first night she saw the light to his bedroom on when she went to grab a drink of water in the middle of the night. It was a school night and he would need to be awake for class in a few hours. She walked to the door and gave it a light knock. When he didn't answer, she let herself in.

Sherlock sat on the table that sat against the window. He was cross-legged and staring out, unblinking, at the street. As each car passed his eyes would track it until it was out of vision. The process repeated a dozen times before she finally spoke.

"Sherlock?" she said quietly.

He jumped at the sound of her voice. "Yes?"

"You need to go to bed, darling."

He bowed his head. "I can't sleep."

"I wondered as much," she said. "Would you like one of my sleeping pills? They work like a charm."

"No thanks."

Another car passed and he watched it go by.

"What are you doing?"

He picked at the fabric of his sweatpants. "Nothing."

Every night she would sit in the living room and listen for the sound of engines. Every rev would cause her to jump to her feet, go to the window and pray like hell that it wasn't Jasper. She knew what that look was and she knew who he was looking for.

"He's not coming."

He shrugged. "I know."

She put a hand on his back. "He's not going to come for you. You're safe here."

"I know." The words were buried in his chest and it was clear that he didn't believe it himself.

"And if he does…"

He smiled. "You'll get him. I know."

She pulled out her fists and waved them wildly. "I've got a mean right hook."

He laughed as she tapped him with her punch. In a truly dramatic fashion he fell to the side and feigned defeat.

"It's nice to see you smile," she said.

Immediately the laugh was lost. "What if he does… I mean like try to take me back?"

"He won't," she said.

He looked up with terror. "But what he tries?"

She grabbed him tight and pulled him in close. "I won't let him."

Immediately she rented out the other flats and the income started to roll in. Finally she had money of her own and a life that she was in control of. It was her life, not one that was revolved around how drunk her husband had gotten and what way she would find to escape his punches.

She kept one flat open. The one upstairs was a bit smaller than the others and had heavy curtains that kept the flat cool and dark most of the day. As a birthday present, she gave Sherlock the key to his own flat.

She thought he might pass out from excitement. In all the years she'd known the boy she'd never seen him so thrilled. He grabbed her and gave her a big bear hug before running up the stairs and opening the door to his very own place.

He deserved it. If his life was anything like hers with Jasper, then the freedom of being alone was what he needed. He had earned the right to get to live in a home where there was no one to fear. He could be protected. No one could hurt him upstairs.

There were only two rules. He had to come down to eat dinner every night and he would have to practice his violin for orchestra with the door open so she could hear. Sherlock immediately agreed to her odd requests and spent the next three hours decorating his new place with the few possessions that he'd grabbed from his house.

Martha grabbed a cup of spice tea and sat in her living room with the door open. The sound of his violin tuning lilted down the stairs. And then he began to play.

It was beautiful. The sorrow and passion in his playing touched her soul as she listened. She felt a lump form in her throat as he reached the crescendo of his song.

If she couldn't have Dorothy, this was the next best thing. Sherlock was as much hers as anyone else's.

He deserved to be loved. He deserved to be happy.


	17. Chapter 17

"They're not here."

John fell against the wall.

"There are wires but the cameras were removed from, what I'd guess, years ago. There's nothing here."

"No," he said, "they have to be there."

Lestrade sighed in the phone. "I know you were hoping that this would be it but...it's just not. I'm sorry."

That was going to do it. It was going to prove that Sherlock was innocent. That was the smoking gun. It was going to do it. Why couldn't something work out? Why couldn't one thing go right?

"Did you find  _anything_?"

Lestrade was quiet.

"What?"he asked as his voice trembled.

"There was one camera."

Oh no.

"Okay," John said. "What's on it?"

Lestrade's voice fell to nearly a whisper. "It's from the stairwell. The men are reviewing it."

"Jesus, what is on it?" he snapped.

"John, please, you need to calm down."

He couldn't calm down. This was taking too long. There were too many people on this case for it to have dragged on this long. If so many people assumed that Sherlock had done it, then maybe…

No.

He couldn't go down that road.

If there was one person left in Sherlock's life, it had to be him and he had to have his back no matter what. Even if he had caught Sherlock with the knife in his hand, it would be John who would say that he trusted his friend. Sherlock was innocent.

Someone had to say it.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Just, Greg, you have to understand. I just-I'm having trouble with all-"

"I know," Lestrade said. "I can only imagine. At least I have work."

He massaged his temple with his thumb. "What's on the tape?"

"They fought," Lestrade said. "You can see Sherlock shouting at her and Martha running down the stairs clearly upset."

"They fight all the time," John said. "She's easily frightened. Oh c'mon Greg, you know that!"

"Yeah," he said, "but a jury doesn't. John, it doesn't take a lot to get motive."

"Motive. I mean...this is unbelievable. It's unbelievable, right?"

"Can I ask you something?"

A pair of doctors walked past him in subdued conversation. For a moment they peered over at him with nothing but pity. He could only imagine the state that he was in at this point. As he ran his fingers through his hair he prepared himself. "What?"

"Was he with you...that night?"

He chest ached. "What are you implying?"

"Nothing. I just...I'm looking at the scene and-"

"Bloody hell, Greg. How long have you known him?"

Quiet.

"What is it, fifteen years? Fifteen goddamn years. You know him better than anyone. Would he hurt her?"

"John…"

He couldn't stop himself from shouting. Nurses glared but he didn't care. "Would he hurt her?"

"It's just-"

"No you know the answer and the answer he would never lay a finger on her. They fight but you fight with your family. Hell I fought with my sister yesterday. That doesn't mean I stab her now does it?"

Another nurse glared.

"There's a gap in his alibi…"

"I really don't give a shit. He didn't do it. Of all the people, I thought they wouldn't get to you. I thought you were stronger than that."

Lestrade went quiet.

John wanted to feel bad. He wanted to apologize but the words didn't come.

"I have to go," John said.

"John…"

He didn't want to think of another person abadoning Sherlock when he needed something. People always used him when they needed something but when it was Sherlock that was in trouble then he was alone.

"I have to go."

He hung up.

As he struggled to comprehend what Greg had said, a nurse came up behind him and grazed his arm.

"Dr. Watson?" she said quietly.

He forced a smile. "Yes?"

"I was told that you were here for Martha Hudson?"

He watched her face for the micro expressions that Sherlock had taught him. Specifically he looked for the tell-tale signs of fear. She was young and inexperienced. The terror of breaking the news of someone dying would show on her face.

It was happiness. Small hints of a smile as she said Mrs. Hudson's name. "I am."

She pointed towards the adjacent hallway. "She's awake."

Awake.

"She is?"

The nurse nodded. "She's a bit, um, she's a bit confused. Maybe if you want to talk to her..."

"Of course," John said.

She could be the key to this. One confirmation that Sherlock had nothing to do with her attack and he'd be released. They were so close.

Mrs. Hudson had been taken off the ventilator but was put on a number of painkillers after her surgery. She looked so small in her bed. Her makeup had been removed and her hair was matted against her forehead. He wanted to grab her lipstick and give it a swipe. Even a casual Mrs. Hudson was always made up. She'd be traumatized to be seen in public in such a state.

As John walked in, her eyes darted back from him to the doctor and back again. He stepped inside carefully and attempted to gauge whether she recognized him or not. The moment he walked through the door, she wildly waved her hand in his direction much to the confusion of her doctor.

John moved quickly to her side and took her hand in his.

She smiled as he held her hand tightly. "John," she said softly.

"This...you have no idea how…" the words got caught in his throat and he struggle to keep from crying.

She looked at him with those doe eyes that had gotten him through many a long night with Sherlock.

"It's so good to be able to talk to you," he said. "How are you feeling?"

She gestured towards her head. "Tired," she said.

"Of course."

He wanted to pry into her mind and ask her about the accident. But as he looked at her distant expression, it was clear she was miles away from reality. Even if she was ready to talk, the statement would be useless.

She tilted her head just enough to look just beyond John and towards the door. He followed her lead but there was no one there. "What is it?" he asked.

"Where…"

"Where what?"

"Sherlock," she whispered.

"Where is Sherlock?" he asked, stalling for time.

She nodded. "I want...I want to see…"

"He's not here right now," he said.

She shook her head. "He...where...needs to be here, John." Her words floated in the room in bits and pieces as she struggled to make sense of her scattered thoughts.

"I know…"

She squeezed his hand. "My children. Where are they. My...my children…"

Children?

"Mrs. Hudson, you need to calm down. You're not making any sense."

She turned her head and her gaze was deadly serious. "My children. Get them. They...they should come."

He turned to the doctor who looked on with guarded concern. In a patient this disoriented, any further conversation just serves to exacerbate them emotionally. Just seeing his face was sending her into a spiral of fantasy and confusion. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and pulled away.

"I'll call Sherlock, okay?"

She smiled as their fingers drifted apart.

"Just focus on getting better."

The look of panic was still a sheen on the sweet woman's face. Whomever she thought was supposed to be there had let her down. All that was around was her latest tenant. A kind face, yes, but not the one she wanted to see.

As he left the room, he couldn't stop thinking about what she'd said.

 _Strange_ , he thought,  _I didn't think she had any children_.

John was nudged awake by the already bored barely conscious Sherlock. Still pale and hardly cognizant, he tapped John on the arm until he finally opened his eyes.

"You're awake," John said with a smile.

"Of course," Sherlock said.

Of course. He said it like there was no alternative. John leaned back in his chair and stretched his worn muscles. "How are you doing?"

Sherlock tugged at the IV's in his arms. "I need to go," he said.

"Go where?"

Sherlock kept picking at the tape and looking at John with wild eyes. "Go...go out."

"Sherlock, you know why you're here, right?"

He shook his head.

"You were at the station."

"Help...I helped."

"Sherlock, you were arrested," John said.

A wave of recognition rolled across his face. For a brief second there had been no stress and John immediately regretted making him remember. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"She's awake," John said. "She wanted to see you."

"She did?" he said.

"Of course."

He smiled and rolled his head towards the window. "I miss her," he said with childlike glee.

"I know. Soon," John said.

"When?"

John shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "Honestly, I don't know."

Sherlock rolled back around to John and began to gesture fruitlessly in his general direction. "Tell her...tell her…"

"Tell her what?"

Sherlock smiled as he pushed his head back in his pillow. "Pie. Tea."

John leaned in just to make sure he wasn't hearing things. "Pardon?"

"Tell her I'll make her pie and tea again. Like before."

John laughed. "You made pie?"

Sherlock looked hurt. "Yes. I did."

"You haven't cooked the entire time I've known you."

"It's different."

"Different?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Mrs. Hudson is special. For her...I cook."

* * *

"You don't have to go."

Mycroft stood at the front door and blocked it with his body. It was a rainy October morning and they'd all been up since five in the morning in near silence. Sherlock stood in the foyer with his suit buttoned tight and his hair sussed and moused to the lawyer's specifications. He was to look robust and healthy as to contrast with the photographs taken at the hospital.

Martha shook her head and moved towards the door herself. "Mycroft, please, we've been over this. He's made his decision."

Mycroft leaned in. "It's the wrong one."

"Not if he wants to do it."

Sherlock looked up at his brother. He had grown to almost to Mycroft's height and his features had become more defined and mature. The little boy that came to Baker Street was now nearly a man. He moved towards Mycroft with his arms crossed across his chest. "I can do this."

"You shouldn't."

"I have to," Sherlock said.

Mycroft's face softened. He knew it was true. The case was infinitely stronger with Sherlock's testimony. He'd practiced his answers until they polished and gleamed and he spoke with such eloquence that his portrayal of his homelife as a boy nearly brought Martha to tears each time he told it.

"You're right," Mycroft said as he let his hand slide from the frame. "I just don't want you to get hurt is all."

Sherlock nodded. Years of abandonment from his brother had made that statement charged between the boys. Martha had sat with Sherlock after he'd had a long talk with his brother on the phone. There was the sense that Mycroft had left when he needed the most help. Even though intellectually Sherlock knew that his brother did all he could, there was the unshaking feeling that he had been forced to protect himself.

"It's a little too late for that," Sherlock muttered as he walked past his brother and towards the car.

Mycroft didn't bother to retaliate. He shut his mouth and watched helplessly as his brother walked away.

"I could only do so much," he said.

Martha rubbed his arm. "He's just angry," she said. "He knows you did."

"Does he though?"

"He's a broken boy," she said. "It's not so easy for him to accept help."

He'd already given her thousands of pounds to help pay for school and food. Every week he'd call Sherlock to check in and make sure his studies were going well and that he was getting better. Sherlock had already had to go back to the hospital twice since his release after he collapsed at home and Mycroft dropped everything to return and take care of him.

"You've done more than your share," she said. "Just give him time."

"I should have stopped him," Mycroft said. "I could have fought back."

"No," she said. "It wouldn't have changed a thing. You're doing it now. You're making his future."

Mycroft nodded but it was clear he was far from all right. "The lawyer said they're reading Father's testimony to Sherlock."

She was in the dark about most of the trial. Sherlock had little interest in being involved in much more than his small role and she decided to stay ignorant in solidarity. "Testimony?"

"It's terrible."

"You read it?"

He nodded. "I don't want him to hear it," he said as his voice bent under the pressure.

She didn't want to ask but the words came out. "What does it say?"

He sighed as he looked towards Sherlock. "That he deserved it. That he was unworthy of being called his son. He called Sherlock a freak and said he needed to be punished. It just goes on like that. Sickening."

Martha felt herself tear up. "They wouldn't…"

"It's their job. They have to bring it up."

Sherlock leaned against the car with a book perched in front of him. She was struck at the presence he cast. For so long he had been hunched and fragile. It felt like she could just touch him and he'd fall into pieces. In his suit he looked strong and sturdy. She just prayed that he was just as strong inside.

"He's just a boy," she said.

Mycroft grabbed his jacket from the coat hook. "Not anymore. Today, he's a man. He has to be."

Sherlock's hand shook in the moments leading up to his testimony. She grabbed him and held him tight to keep him from getting agitated. Stress led to further attacks and this was as stressful as it got. Her entire purse was filled with medications and every backup plan the doctor had suggested.

"You want something before you go up?" she whispered. The psychiatrist had given him a litany of antidepressant and anti anxieties that appeared to only exacerbate and magnify his memories. The sedatives were the only thing that worked. His mind ran so quickly and circulated information at such a fast clip that it was nearly impossible for him to focus long enough to calm himself down when the panic engulfed him body. The sedatives brought the fever pitch to a normal crawl.

He shook his head. "I'm fine," he said as he began to bounce his foot up and down on the floor.

In an hour it would all be over. They'd leave the courtroom and never think about Gregory Holmes again. Sherlock could back to practicing for orchestra and worrying about his chemistry exam instead of memorizing answers that involved multiple mentions of trauma and bruising.

"The prosecution calls Sherlock Holmes to the stand."

He didn't move.

She nudged him.

The lawyer spun around and looked over at his star witness. Sherlock sat frozen in his seat.

"Sherlock," she said.

His eyes shut and he took a series of quick breaths. She knew what that meant. "Darling, slow your breathing."

"Sherlock Holmes to the stand," the lawyer repeated.

Martha felt her face turn red as all eyes were on the boy in the stands. "Sherlock you have to go up."

Slowly his eyes opened and he looked at her like he'd just been woken from a dream.

"You can do this," she said.

He nodded and let her hand go. With heavy steps, he walked to the witness box. Martha felt her stomach turn as she watched Gregory watch his son. The man had lost weight in prison and his face had contorted and molded itself into a series of sharp piercing features that only accentuated his cruel expressions. As Sherlock sat down and forced his tense nervous body into an approximation of confidence she saw Gregory laugh.

Laugh.

She could have killed him.

At that moment she was glad Sherlock was here. If going through this meant that he could make that monster pay for what he'd done then it would be worth it.


	18. Chapter 18

He was determined to find something. It didn't matter it was a piece of lint that was misplaced, it would be something in Sherlock's favor. Any scrap of information would help Sherlock solve this. John knew that he was simply a proxy-he was the eyes and years for the great mind and, right now, that was good enough.

The scene had been photographed and the officers had moved on. The flat, however, was surrounded by meters and meters of crime tape. John looked left and right and lifted up the tape that closed in his front door. When no one stopped him from putting in his key, he went inside.

It was musty and cold. The silence swirled in the stairwell. It was odd to not hear Mrs. Hudson's pot clanking or Sherlock smashing something. There was no one left to make a sound. He had to bring them back. It was up to him to find them salvation.

They hadn't moved a thing in Mrs. Hudson's flat. Even though he'd been in her place loads of times, stepping in without her felt like a tremendous breach of trust. He stepped over crime scene markers and broken bits of glass and pottery that was scattered over the carpet. With a deep breath, John channeled Sherlock. The answer was always in the details. There was nothing too insignificant to overlook.

At first glance, there was nothing obvious beside the few items that had been broken on the floor. Then he bent down to examine  _what_  had been broken.

If he had been blindsided by an attacker, his first instinct would be to defend himself. Perhaps he'd grab a poker from the fireplace or a heavy piece of pottery. Instead, on the ground were two framed photographs along with a pink sparkling lamp that was hardly heavier than a small rock.

Those weren't weapons. Mrs. Hudson had a much heavier vase next to the photographs that were destroyed that lay unused. If she wanted to defend herself, that would be the logical recourse. Someone wanted to break those particular items, but why?

He walked over to the blood spatter that was quite far into her flat, near the kitchen. On the counter were two cups and a plate of biscuits that had gone unused. Whoever came inside was friendly.

Mrs. Hudson knew who it was that attacked her.

John had to shake away the creeping suspicions that rose up his spine.

If she knew who attacked her then…

No.

It wasn't possible.

He forced himself to stay focused. There had to be another clue.

As John walked farther down the flat, he noticed a small stain on the wall a few feet from where Mrs. Hudson had laid. It was far off the ground so whoever made the stain had been standing up. It was a long streak of the faintest red.

Blood.

From the pattern of the streaks, he could see the hint of an oval shape.

Fingers.

Someone had run their hand down the wall. As he followed the stain, it grew lighter and fainter until he reached the back door. There, at the door, was a small splotch about six feet off the ground. There were fine fiber imprints in the splotch, not unlike hair. The person had walked, supported by the wall, and fallen against the door, bleeding the entire time.

Whoever had attacked Mrs. Hudson was injured themselves.

Sherlock was uninjured, at least when the brought him in. This was something. Sherlock would be able to spin this into gold. Someone, whom Mrs. Hudson trusted, came in the flat. She didn't feel the need to defend herself and even went so far as go to the kitchen and prepare tea and food. There could only be so many people who could be under suspicion.

John walked back to the frames that lay on their faces. On the dresser there were at least half a dozen framed pictures but there were only two that lay on the ground. From the arrangement as it was, it did not appear that they had been chosen based on their location. There were photographs that sat near the edge of the dresser that had gone untouched. There were two faded photographs of a younger Mrs. Hudson with a small girl in pigtails and a big friendly smile. They had the front and center spot. The ones that had been damaged had been taken from the middle of the pack. They had been selected.

John pulled his sleeve over his hand and grabbed the edge of the frame just slightly. It didn't take long to see the piercing stare of a young Sherlock in a graduation cap and gown. Mrs. Hudson had her arm wrapped around him and smiled a beaming proud grin at the boy. He moved to the other. It took a bit longer to figure out who the figure was in the artistic black and white photograph but it was the curls that gave it away. It was a side profile of a boy staring intensely into a book. It was perched at eye level and a beam of sunlight from a nearby window that engulfed both the boy and his book. There was such sadness to the boy's eyes but he could see why she liked the photograph so much. It was a beautiful shot.

He left the flat with more questions than answers. All he wanted was to run back and input his data into Sherlock. There had to be something there. There were so only so much people that overlapped with both Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock.

* * *

"...danger to himself. Self destructive."

The defense attorney looked up from his folder.

Sherlock bowed his head as the man continued to speak. "Are we to take testimony from someone whom his own doctor has claimed is willing to harm himself? His behavior has grown more alarming as he has grown. What are we to believe?"

Sherlock gripped the sides of the podium he sat in front of and struggled to maintain his ragged eye contact with Mrs. Hudson. He knew that if he let his eyes wander he would be taken in by his father.

There were more questions asked of him than he'd expected. He was exhausted. He wasn't ready to be up here.

The defense attorney had taken the tactic to stand and point as he read from the medical report from his hospitalization. After taking pregnant pause to let the jury sufficiently judge Sherlock, the lawyer turned back to Sherlock.

"Why did you starve yourself?"

Sherlock looked towards Mrs. Hudson and she nodded to reassure. "I did not starve myself," he said.

The lawyer turned back to his papers. "Your doctor said that you were malnourished and you had lost a substantial amount of weight in a matter of two months. Is that true?"

He didn't have a response except for the honest truth. "Yes, that's true."

"And your father provided you food in his home. There was dinner available for you to eat, was there not?"

"Yes there was, but-"

"And you chose not to eat it. Is there right Mr. Holmes?"

He felt his stomach clench. This was what they were focusing on because it was the only thing that his father hadn't done. Prove that he was crazy and the rest would fall in line.

"I did it to save myself," he said quietly.

The lawyer cocked his head. "Could you repeat that?"

It wasn't what he'd been coached to say but it was the truth. The truth was all that he had now. "I did it to save myself."

The lawyer looked at him, perplexed. "According to your records, Mr. Holmes, you suffered heart failure and spent nearly two months in hospital. Explain to me how that is 'saving you'?"

He repeated back Sherlock's words with such disdain so the jury would realize just how ridiculous this damaged boy actually was.

"If I went to hospital then they would call the police."

The lawyer locked eyes with Sherlock and made a quick decision. From the look on his face, he was disgusted with what he had to say next. "So you worked the system? Sounds like you were looking to get your father in trouble."

Sherlock looked desperately at Mrs. Hudson. There were tears in her eyes.

"He...he hurt…" Sherlock said as the words got caught in his throat.

The lawyer's face fell as his witness slowly fell apart in front of him. "The police were called to your home six months before your hospitalization. Why didn't you speak to them then?"

He didn't have the strength to fight anymore. "I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

Sherlock finally gave in and looked at his father. In the months that they'd been separated he'd lost weight and grown out his hair. The look was stringy and unhinged in a way that made him only more haunting.

For just an instant they made eye contact. There was such hatred in his father's face. Even though he was across the room and in handcuffs, Sherlock couldn't shake away the visceral reaction of anxiety.

"Of him."

"Mr. Holmes, were you bullied at school?"

He nodded.

"Please, speak your answers."

"Yes," he said quietly.

The lawyer turned towards the jury. "Just in the last twelve months, Sherlock Holmes has been to the school office five times after an incident with another student. Three times he was detained for medical attention by the school's nurse."

"Yes, but that's not how-" he began to say.

"Mr. Holmes, you have never reported abuse from your father. There are number of reports in our records of doctors and officers inquiring. Why now?"

He took a deep breath. His chest still ached when he breathed and the stress of being in front of all the people in the courtroom made him lightheaded and nauseous. "I couldn't do it anymore."

His father simply smiled and shook his head.

Sherlock looked at Mrs. Hudson in panic. How had this gone wrong?

 _Please help me_ , he pleaded.  _Don't make me go back_.

The lawyer turned his head away from Sherlock just a moment too late. Sherlock saw the sadness that was etched all over his face. The man had to defend a monster.

 _Save me_.

* * *

John waved his hand to gain the attention of the taxi that sailed down the street. Just as the taxi pulled to a half, he saw a tall dark figure across the street. The man looked out towards their flat for just an instant before he caught a glimpse of John. Immediately he turned away and began to walk down the street.

He felt something.

Instinct.

Gut feeling.

A Sherlock inspired intuition.

He had to follow this man.

"Sorry," he said to the taxi driver as he waved him away.

John ran after the man.

Something told him that this was the answer.


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock walked off the stand still shaking. While the prosecutor had been thorough in every wound, every scratch, every scar, the last thing the jury heard was the defense attorney's description of Sherlock courtesy of his own mother's writing.

The words still rang in his ears as he moved back to the seats and the judge broke the court for lunch.

I'm worried about him.

He could hear her voice as the man said the words.

He's lost. I'm afraid for him.

Only a monster would go through his own wife's personal belongings and pick and choose the bits that helped exonerate him. Everyone knew that his mother kept a journal and was intensely private about what she wrote. It was locked in a drawer and the key was kept on her person at all times. But of course his father would stoop to that level.

I don't know what to do with him anymore. Every day he seems farther and farther away. I love my son but I don't know how to help him. Gregory says that I should push him harder but I'm afraid that it'll be too much. My poor boy.

He never felt the pity from his mother. All his life he felt she had faith in him. There was always such pride on her face when he came home from school with a high mark or an award for good behavior. But her own words suddenly clouded over all those happy memories.

It's so hard to look at him. Last night Gregory spoke to Sherlock for nearly an hour. All I heard was the shouting. I couldn't look inside.

His mother never acknowledged his father's anger, not even once. It was always an excuse. Every time he thought she would add that his father had hit him when he misbehaved or shoved him when he talked back, that detail was missing. From her writing, it appeared as if he had brought his pain all on himself.

He's such a sad boy. I'm afraid for him. What will come of Sherlock?

The lawyer read the words theatrically and with such anguish. The mother that wrote such words was not the mother that he knew. His mother never so much as cast her head down or did anything less than smile in his presence. He never knew the length of pity that she felt for him. It made him feel like he deserved it.

Maybe he was supposed to be punished.

If everyone felt that way then maybe they were right.

Block after block John followed the man from Baker Street. Years of training had taught him how to tail someone without being detected but at certain point he felt foolish. The longer he watched the lanky figure stride towards the center of town the more he was convinced that perhaps it was a wild goose chase. After all the man had to be in sixties and while he did take off once he laid eyes on John that didn't mean he was connected with the case.

Finally the man stepped into a drug store. He lingered out for nearly a minute and then went in after him.

The store was more cramped and small than it appeared on the outside and John was immediately greeted with a large display of magazines and gum. He did a quick sidestep to avoid knocking the entire shelf over and ran straight into someone.

"Eh!" the stranger said.

John turned around quickly to apologize when he was greeted with an oddly familiar stare. The moment of recognition faded away as he realized that he'd played his hand. If the man didn't know he was following him before, he did now.

He held his breath and hoped the moment would pass. The man took one look at him and his eye's bugged just a split second. But, he'd been trained. A split second was long enough. It wasn't a look of surprise or anger.

It was fear.

The man quickly turned away and moved past John without saying a word. He dumped the bottle of water that he had onto a crisps display and made his way for the door.

"Wait!" John shouted after him.

The man didn't stop. He pushed the door open barely an inch and slipped through it and began down the street yet again. John ran right after him.

He had started to run.

John reached in his pocket for his phone. He should call Lestrade. He knew that he should call Lestrade.

But this was too important.

He ran after the man.

Block after block, intersection after intersection. All he could see was the pale blue shirt wave in the distance. The man slowed bit by bit as they neared their seventh block at full force. John had a bit more energy in reserve. He kept the pace and, bit by bit, he was nearing his target.

Eventually the man simply gave up. He leaned against the brick wall of a dentist's office and doubled over as he struggled to catch his breath.

John was hardly in better shape but he forced himself upright. "Why'd you run?"

The man coughed and wheezed.

"Hey. Answer me."

He fell to the ground in an exhausted flop. All he did was shake his head. "I didn't...I didn't expect to see…"

"See what?"

He looked John straight in the eyes. "You."

"Do I know you?"

"Not quite."

He felt such familiarity with the man. It was like he'd known him in another life. The sense of deja vous was frustratingly unclear.

John bent down to see the man eye to eye. "Why are you at my flat?"

"You weren't supposed to be there, John." He spoke with such elegance for a man in clothes that clearly had not been cleaned in weeks. For such a broken down looking man, he had the formality of a well-schooled gentleman.

"How do you know my name?"

He should have run. Sherlock would have never let the conversation get this far. Every alarm in his brain went off all at once and yet he stood there waiting for answers. There were no answers. He'd been tricked.

He'd been tricked by the best.

The man's traces of fear had all disappeared. It was a rouse.

On the empty street in front of the dentist's office, John felt the tip of a knife pressed against his chest. He didn't dare move.

"You weren't supposed to be there," he said.

He would be stabbed. This was not the first step. He wasn't going anywhere. This man was ready to kill him.

John struggled to stay focused. He'd been trained for this. In practice he'd disarmed this exact situation dozens of times. Hell, he'd taught people how to disarm this attack. But he stood frozen.

"Why?" he asked.

There was that smile again. Why did he already know it?

"I need you all gone. That's the only way."

Breathe, John, breathe. "Need who gone?"

He pushed the knife further. John felt the tip dig into his skin the first trickle of blood fall down his chest. "All of them."

It was as he stared that it became clear.

Sherlock.

He'd seen that stare everyday.

"You're Sherlock's…"

The man sneered. "Not anymore. Not since that...that...freak put me in jail."

His father. He had to be. Sherlock never talked much about him but Mycroft had let it slip that their father had been in prison. This man was as far away from Sherlock as a man could possibly be. There was such raw hostility in his face.

"You don't need to do this," John said as he struggled to keep the man talking.

"He needs to pay."

John watched as Gregory got up and saw the slightest limp in his right knee. As he put the weight on it, there was the moment of struggle. As Gregory came a step closer, John kicked his ankle up and around his attacker's leg. With a swift yank, he pulled hard against the back of Gregory's leg. With his leg contorted, Gregory yelped in pain and lost his hold on John for just a moment.

It was long enough. John went for the knife. He grabbed for the handle but Gregory pulled the knife down and sliced John's hand. Undeterred, he tried again. Gregory slashed wildly in front of him as John came towards him. He felt the skin on his chest sting as his body slowly recognized that he was injured.

He couldn't stop.

Just stay focused.

With an elbow to the stomach, John was able to finally weaken Gregory long enough to grab the knife handle and yanked it away.

He held it up to Gregory's chest. The front of his own shirt was striped with blood but he didn't have time to stop. The pain could take hold later.

"Get down!" he shouted.

Gregory didn't move.

"Now!"

Again, nothing.

"How dare you," John said. "You...you're a monster."

Gregory shook his head. "You sound just like him. Idiots...all of you."

"I'll take that as a compliment," John said.

Gregory's eyes lowered and his voice "I should have killed him when I had the chance. Waste...just damaged goods. Just like his mother."

John couldn't stop the adrenaline from taking hold. It burst like fireworks in his brain. All he could hear were the shells and bombs going off all around him. The shrieks of his men drowned out every other noise. All he felt was the chilling feeling that he could die. He had to save them. He had to kill the enemy.

His body moved without his mind accompanying it. He felt his hand clench around the knife until his joints ached.

They were coming.

They were going to kill them all.

John had to save them.

He had to fight.

He had to do whatever it took.

It wasn't until Gregory fell to the ground that he even felt the impact of the knife. Suddenly the world came back into focus. The blood pooled around his body as the knife stuck out of his side.

"Shit," he said in horror. John stepped back and shook violently as he saw what he had done.

"No, no, no," he said as he forced himself into doctor mode. He could fix this. He had to fix this.

If Gregory died, then Sherlock would never be free.

John felt for a pulse. It was there but the blood loss would do him in if he didn't get into surgery quickly. He dialed for an ambulance as his entire body shook in panic.

What he done?

He pressed his hand against Gregory's chest as the man's breathing grew more and more shallow.

He had to save him.

This was his fault.

He had to save him.


	20. Chapter 20

John shook as the ambulances took Gregory Holmes away. He'd managed to stabilize him but there was never a certainty. As the ambulance drove down the street he simply stood and stared, too overwhelmed to move another muscle.

He could have just ruined it all because he couldn't control himself. Gregory had confessed to everything and John could have just waited it out. There were hundreds of ways to disarm a man without attacking and he'd sunk to the bottom rung. He'd sought revenge instead of justice and now Sherlock had to pay.

Lestrade came up beside him and handed him a bottle of water and an exhausted but tepidly reassuring look. "Finally got the guy who attacked you to talk," he said.

John didn't care. That man was nothing. "Yeah?"

"Said that a man named Holmes paid him to kill Mycroft. He didn't get the chance to finish the job."

John had to laugh. "Man named Holmes. Can't be easy, huh?"

Lestrade smiled. "No, I suppose it can't."

"You need me to come in?"

Lestrade looked over at a small group of expectant officers who appeared more than irritated at the lackadaisical nature of their boss' line of questioning. "Yeah, in a few. How are you feeling?"

The paramedics had put half a dozen bandages along his chest and pronounced him good to go but it still ached every time he moved. "Just wish this would end."

Lestrade nodded. "Paramedics thought he'd pull through. We're having guards outside of his room. He's not getting anywhere."

"Have you pulled the video feed?"

Lestrade smiled and patted John on the back. "He's been released."

John felt like he was about to collapse. "He's what?"

"They found the missing ten minutes when Mrs. Hudson was attacked. It took them away to finally find Sherlock but they found him. You were nearby but he was twenty blocks away from Baker Street."

"And the blood? And the fingerprints?"

He shrugged. "You both live in the same flat. That's easily explained."

John didn't push it. He didn't need to hear anything else. Sherlock was off the hook. He was a free man. As much as it hurt to move, he hugged Lestrade so hard that he thought his arms would break.

"Can I see him?"

Lestrade looked over at his angry colleagues and then back at John.

"Yeah, let's go see him."

John didn't care how many laws they were breaking. He couldn't wait to share the good news.

Martha stood outside the door with a rapidly cooling cup of tea in her hand. For the tenth time, she knocked on the door and called gently for Sherlock to come out. Again he ignored her. The lawyer had made the error of assuming that he was equipped to hear the prognosis of the case. Sherlock appeared to most people as ultra-mature and in touch with the adult world but she knew better. She knew that he was just a scared little boy putting up an act.

The lawyer seemed discouraged after Sherlock's testimony. It was the fear that they had originally had when it was suggested that Sherlock would go on the stand. While there was medical evidence of abuse, there were very few witnesses to the action itself. Most witnesses only saw the verbal end, the shouting and yelling, but never the physical side. The crafty defense team had done a masterful job of painting Sherlock into a damaged mental patient who was in fights at school and self destructive. The doctors that were paraded for the jury expressed their opinions that they suspected abuse but without the smoking gun it was becoming harder and harder to prove it.

Martha had offered to go on the stand but the lawyers knew that her own background would only hurt the boy more. And, even she couldn't admit that she'd actually seen Gregory hurt the boy more than the one time outside. She absolutely knew for a fact that it occurred but absolute assurance meant nothing in front of the jury.

No, it was down to the one man who would do anything but speak against his father. No matter how many times Sherlock pleaded and begged his brother the answer was always no. He would not testify against his father.

That was the last word before they left the lawyer's office for the day. The ride back to the flat was silent and immensely tense as she struggled to find an encouraging word for the boy who'd just been humiliated in front of an entire courtroom full of people who thought he was liar.

It had been hours since they'd been home and she hadn't seen them since they'd stepped inside the flat. She knew better than to bother the boy when he was in one of his moods but today she was genuinely worried. Years of Jasper had taught her the acute signs of hopelessness and she saw it in his eyes. He had practically killed himself to get his father punished for what he'd done it appeared that the man who get away with it because he'd been so good at hiding his temper.

She dropped the cup of tea on the counter and went straight to the phone. Her heart pounded as she dialed his number but it was her last chance to make this right. If Gregory was to go free, it would kill Sherlock. He was already just barely hanging on as it was-what would he be like if there was no justice?

The phone rang and her fingers played with the coils of the cord.

Mycroft answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

She steadied her voice. "Mycroft, darling, let me talk to you."

"I already told you-"

"I know," Martha said, "I know what you told me but I need you to reconsider."

Mycroft was a good boy and she struggled to remember that as she grew increasingly frustrated with him. He had grown up in the same home and had the same negative toxic environment to welcome him everyday. If there was anyone who saw anything, it was Mycroft.

If he truly loved his brother then…

She had to stop herself from being so one-sided. Yes Sherlock was his brother but Gregory was also his father. There was evidence that supported the abuse without dragging Mycroft onto the stand. She had to imagine the strain he felt at the choice that he was being forced to make.

"You know why I can't...he's my father."

She sighed. "He's not doing well."

"Sherlock? He'll be fine."

She struggled to keep from crying. "You didn't see him."

"I saw him just yesterday."

"No," she said, "in the car. He's losing hope." Her voice cracked as she finished her sentence.

There was silence at the other end.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes?" he said quietly.

"If they let him go free…"

"They won't," Mycroft said. "There's no way. You heard all those doctors."

"Yes," she said, "but you heard what they said about your brother. You hear what they're trying to make him sound like. Even your mother-"

"Leave her out of this," he snapped.

She sighed. "Even your mother backed him up. The jury thinks that your brother is some kind of attention seeker. How could he live with himself if that's how this ended?"

Silence.

"I can't testify," she said, "it won't mean anything. But you can change all of this."

Silence.

She spoke directly into the receiver. "He won't survive this. If your father is free then Sherlock will crumble. He'll fall just like your mother."

There was a sharp intake of air on the other side of the phone and she felt the guilt overwhelm her as the moment passed.

That crossed a line. She shouldn't have said-

"All right."

Her ears perked up. "What?"

There was sorrow in his voice. "I'll do it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I can't-I can't lose another-" his words got caught in his throat.

"I know," she said.

"Tell them I'll testify," he said through the tears.


	21. Chapter 21

Mycroft looked as if the spirit had been forced from his body as he walked to the stand. For the last two days Sherlock had hardly been able to get out of bed. His heart had been acting up and he'd been fighting a fever and general exhaustion. There were moments the night before when she was ready to pack him in the car and rush him to the hospital. His skin turned so pale and his eyes lost all their spark and she feared that this would be the moment that they'd lose him. But then, he would get a second wind. Somehow his color came back and the light came back to his eyes. Every time he seemed so far gone, he managed to find the strength to come back.

She didn't want him to come. The entire night he'd been vomiting and moaning in pain. His body simply couldn't handle the stress of the trial and it was coming out in force. But he insisted. While she was asleep, he got himself out of bed, took a shower, make both of them breakfast and dressed up in his best suit. When she finally woke up herself, he was in the living room with the news playing on the TV with his dress shoes perched on her end table.

Martha knew that he felt like hell inside. There was no way the boy she cared for the entire night was the same spirited rosy faced boy that laughed at the commercials while she made a cup of tea. He was a master of trickery. If it suited him, he could act whatever way he needed and today, he needed to be strong.

They sat in the stands and she held onto his hand. It was cold and clammy but he didn't pull back when she wrapped her fingers around it. She felt his hand shake as she gripped it even harder.

"We can go," she said.

He shook his head. "I want to hear."

She couldn't imagine why. The only reason Mycroft was up there in the first place was for him to tell the gritty details. These were going to be hurtful traumatic memories that Sherlock had spent a lifetime hiding from the world.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

He nodded. There was such confidence in his face but his hand betrayed him. It still shook. It was the same tremor that he got when he talked about his father and how scared he was to go home. He was terrified.

Lestrade drove far over the speed limit with the sirens blaring. They raced down the street to the hospital. Not a word needed to be said.

The moment Lestrade parked the car, John jumped out and ran to the lobby. He wanted so badly have an ounce of good news. Something inside of him knew that Sherlock needed it so badly. That maybe, just maybe, knowing that he was free would fix everything. He prayed that this would reset it all and they could go back to normal.

He just wanted his old life back. He just wanted Sherlock home.

John ran to the stairwell and swung the door open and bounded up two steps at a time. His chest ached and his legs burned as he raced up the three flights. All he wanted was to get to the ICU and tell him the good news. There was a smile on his face, a goddamn smile. He hadn't smiled in days. There was hope. For Sherlock, for both of them, there was finally hope.

He went down the hall to room 5. It was at the end of the hallway and the journey took him past room after room of sickness and hopelessness. Respirators and life support kept the hope alive for a few hours more. But not Sherlock. There was still a future.

The nurse lingered outside the room.

John's pace slowed as he got to Room 5.

His heart fell to his feet.

What happened?"

John grabbed the wall and struggled to catch his breath.

The nurse looked up with tired eyes. "Are you all right?" she asked with such sweetness.

He didn't want to ask. He didn't want to know.

"Can I see him?"

She looked over to the doctors without answering him.

"Oh no," he muttered. "No."

"Mr. Holmes," the prosecutor asked. "Did you witness any of the physical abuse that your brother claims occurred?"

Mycroft looked out to the crowd and his face twisted in anguish. She felt such pity for the boy. This moment came after a lifetime of being the anointed one. He'd stayed out of his father's way, done what he was supposed to do, and he was rewarded. This was a risk. With one word, he could ruin it all.

His father would hate him.

She knew how devastating that was going to be.

Mycroft looked straight at Martha before he spoke. There was fear in his eyes. She gave him the smile that she gave him everytime he came to visit after Sherlock was taken away. It said it all. It said that she would love him no matter what. He was a brave boy doing what was right for his brother.

"Yes," he said. "I did."

The entire courtroom hushed.

The prosecutor pulled out a medical file. "Can you describe what happened in March 1992? Sherlock was taken to the hospital with three broken ribs and required four stitches for a cut on the side of his head. You brought him in to be examined. Could you tell us what happened?"

Martha didn't know about that trip to the hospital. That was when she didn't leave the house and she'd pulled away. Those months were lost and she'd drifted away from everyone, including Sherlock.

"I was home from university for the weekend," he said, "and Sherlock and Father were already having problems."

"Can you describe those problems?"

Mycroft lowered his eyes from the crowd. "Sherlock had been sent to the school office after getting in a fight with another boy at the school."

"And did he get in a fight?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No. Sherlock was being bothered by a few boys at school but the teachers had trouble sorting it out so they were all sent home."

"So your father was angry at Sherlock being sent home?"

Mycroft nodded. "He kept Sherlock home from school for the next week as a punishment."

"At home? Why?"

"He did that quite a bit. Sherlock nearly had to repeat sixth grade because he missed nearly a month of school. It was his idea of making him learn his lesson. I didn't agree with it."

The lawyer turned to the jury to let that statement sink in.

"And what happened that morning?"

Sherlock's hand gripped hers even tighter. He knew what was coming and could feel his heart beat against her skin. "We should go."

His face had a thin sheen of sweat and he was growing paler. "No," he said. "I want to hear this."

She let her thumb rub against his hand. It was a futile attempt to calm him down but it was the best she could do.

Mycroft took a breath and said his story without pausing. It was like exorcising a demon as the words spilled from his gut. "Sherlock was in his room and was trying to catch up with his school work. Father was angry because Sherlock was ignoring him-I believe that he'd asked him to do a chore around the house.

So Father went into Sherlock's room and told him to come out. When Sherlock said no, that he wanted to study, Father went inside and they argued for a few minutes before he grabbed Sherlock by arm and began to drag him towards the door.

Sherlock tried to fight back so he wouldn't get pulled across the floor but Father grabbed his other arm and pushed him out into the hallway. I tried to stop them both but they wouldn't listen. Father told Sherlock to stand up but he wouldn't get up.

Then Father took his fist and hit Sherlock in the side of the head. He fell to the ground and he started to kick him in the chest and head. It was horrific. I ran over to stop him and he pushed me against the wall but I finally did it. I got him off of Sherlock but the damage was already done. He was bleeding everywhere so I took him to the hospital and then I took him to university with me until the school forced him to leave."

The lawyer stood in shock and the courtroom was silent.

Sherlock shut his eyes and took it all in. She held him even tighter.

"And was this a common occurrence? Did your Father do similar things to your brother before this?"

"Yes," he said. Mycroft looked exhausted.

"Did he injure your brother?"

"Yes, many times."

"Did he target your brother?"

"Absolutely."

"Would you say that he was physically abusive to Sherlock?"

Mycroft looked over again, this time not at Martha but at his brother. Sherlock looked over at him with such respect and love. For that moment they weren't just brothers anymore.

They were so much more.

They were survivors.

"Yes," he said. "He was. Everything Sherlock has said is true. Our father was physically abusive."

Sherlock's entire body relaxed as Mycroft finished his sentence. She saw a tear in his eye as his brother exited the stand.

Justice was done.

They believed him now.

There was hope still ahead.

John grabbed the wall as he waited the endless seconds as the nurse consulted with the doctor. He didn't want to make the connections. Why weren't they letting him in? What had happened?

Sherlock couldn't be dead.

It wasn't fair.

He was free now.

He could go.

No.

It can't be.

The nurse walked back over. "He's not in the room."

"Why?" his voice squeaked out.

She pointed down the hall. "He wanted to go see her."

"Her?"

She nodded. "Martha Hudson. He was very insistent."

"Martha…" he had to laugh. This, of all times, Sherlock had chosen to be sentimental.

She smiled. "Yes. They've been together for quite a while. Do you want to visit?"

Mrs. Hudson's room was only three doors down. In stark contrast to the rest of the floor, there was noise coming out of the room that wasn't the gulp of tears and the agony of terrible news. It was laughing.

He walked inside cautiously as to not disturb them.

They didn't even see him as he stepped through the door. Sherlock was in a wheelchair with his arm hooked up to three separate IV's and his skin still pale and pekid. He looked like he should be chained to a bed being given his last rites but he was sitting up and smiling. His hand was on Mrs. Hudson's, his fingers wrapped gingerly around hers.

The woman was still flat on her back and weak but there was finally light in her eyes. She had a smile on her face and that sweetness had returned. They spoke quietly but it was clear that it meant so much to her to have him there. She beamed behind all the equipment that lined her bed.

He didn't want to break the moment but the news couldn't be stopped. It would only help Sherlock's recovery.

John knocked lightly on the door and both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson turned around.

"John!" Mrs. Hudson said with glee.

"You came back," Sherlock said.

"Of course I came back."

Mrs. Hudson beckoned him over and immediately grabbed his hand and held it tightly in her own. "I missed you. My boy…"

"I'm so glad you see you up," he said as tears came to his eyes. "Such a relief…"

"John…" Sherlock scolded, "please."

Being admonished by Sherlock. Now things were back to normal.

"I have news," he said.

Sherlock raised his wrists. "I hear that I'm free."

"Yes," John said. "They told you?"

"They released me from the cuffs. I assume that man they questioned was behind it all. Moriarty, yes?" he asked.

Moriarty? No. John didn't want to say it. After all he'd heard and all he knew, he wasn't sure how Sherlock would take it. But it was better to find out from a friend. At least he hoped so.

"No, it wasn't Moriarty."

Sherlock looked confused. "Really. I'm surprised."

"It was…"

He couldn't say it.

Mrs. Hudson leaned over and took a sharp breath. "Who? John, who?"

He didn't want to see Sherlock's reaction. John looked away as he spoke. "Your father. It was your father."

Mrs. Hudson gasped as she fell back in her bed. "Oh goodness," she said. "It can't be. He's not out of jail is he?"

Sherlock sat in silence. His weakness had taken hold-he could playact no longer.

"Sherlock, darling?"

He shook his head. "He was released last month. I didn't want to tell you."

"Why? Why wouldn't you tell me?"

"He's my problem. I didn't want to scare you," Sherlock said.

John stood against the wall and waited for the whirlwind to die down.

"Where is he?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Emergency. He was...injured in his arrest."

Sherlock looked over with interest. "You?"

John nodded.

"Good," Sherlock said.

The revenge in Sherlock's voice was terrifying to John. For a man so robotically removed from life, to hear such thirst for vengeance was alarming. "They're going to arrest him once he recovers. You don't need to see him."

Sherlock looked over and grabbed the wheels of his chair. "I want to see him."

Mrs. Hudson reached out and grabbed his arm. "No. Don't see him."

"I want to," he said.

"All this time," she said, "you've spent letting him go. Just let him go."

He rolled away from her grasp. "John, take me to him."

John stepped back. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Sherlock grabbed his IV stand rolled past John in a crooked jagged line. "Then I will go without you."

John watched as his friend moved out of the room and went on a slow journey to the elevator. "He shouldn't, right?" he asked Mrs. Hudson.

She shook her head. "He got what he wanted. This is just revenge."

"Maybe that's what he needs," John said.

There were tears in her eyes. "Maybe," she said. "Maybe."


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock was in the hallway as he waited for the nurse to bring him back. He'd turned away from John.

"Sherlock, stop this."

His head snapped around. "Stop what?"

"Seeing your father. What is the point?"

Sherlock leaned forward and anger filled his eyes. "I haven't spoken to him in fifteen years. Last time I saw him was when they took him away in handcuffs. He doesn't know what I am like now…"

John couldn't tell what he meant by that. Sherlock was not the man that his teachers probably thought he would be. From what he had gleaned from bits and pieces of Sherlock's life story, he had been a straight A student with a clearly brilliant mind. He could have done anything and been successful at it. Hell, he could have been prime minister or discovered the cure for cancer by now but here he was, doing police work for nothing more than recognition. To his father he'd clearly be a disappointment.

"You're ill," John said.

Sherlock shook his head. "I want to speak to him about what he did."

"You can't be getting agitated," John said. "Your heart…"

"Do you know how many times I've dealt with my arrhythmia?"

"No," John muttered.

"Sixteen hospital stays. I spent nearly a year in and out of hospital. This isn't the end of this discussion. I have done far more and felt far worse."

"It's just petty revenge. I thought you'd be above that," John said.

"Petty…" Sherlock said with a snap. "It's anything but petty."

John took a step back. He knew so little about what actually happened with Sherlock's father. Mycroft had let bits of information out but for the most part it was a mystery. All he knew that their father was in jail and that he'd made Sherlock's childhood unpleasant. With a kid like Sherlock he wasn't all that surprised that it wasn't unicorns and rainbows everyday.

"I'm not letting you go."

"I don't need your permission," Sherlock said.

"How do you expect to get down there?"

John was surprised the conversation had gone on this long. Sherlock was not one to negotiate. He always got what he wanted, no matter with John said. There were ways that he could get down there on his own but then he'd be alone.

"I'll find a way. You can go."

Alone. He didn't want to go alone.

Sherlock began to roll forward but his chair immediately swerved and got stuck on a corner. His IV bags shook in the lurch and Sherlock overcorrected. Soon he was wedged against the wall. He slammed his hand down on the armrest in frustration.

John went to grab the handles to rescue him but Sherlock waved his hand away. "I can do it."

John took a step back. Sherlock rolled backwards an inch and then forward at a slight angle. Each movement freed him just a bit more. It was painful to watch.

"Let me just…" John said as he went to help again.

"Stop," Sherlock growled.

John shook his head. "Fine. I'll just leave you to yourself."

"Wonderful," Sherlock said.

"Don't bother calling. I'll be at the station."

Sherlock nodded. "Why would I call you?"

"I have no idea," John said in exasperation.

Sherlock refused to stop moving around in fits and spurts and John couldn't take it anymore. The man was already one false move from having another episode with his heart and all the physical exertion was unnecessary and dangerous. Without saying a word he grabbed the handles to the wheelchair and pulled Sherlock away from the wall. Sherlock didn't fight back. They went back to his room in silence.

He was shaking as he told her. She saw all the blood drain from his face as the words seem to force themselves violently from under his skin.

"Why didn't you tell the lawyers?" she asked.

He blinked away the guilt from his face. "I didn't...I didn't want him to come after me."

"Come after you?"

He held his arms tight against his body. "When he's out. If he goes to jail."

"Sherlock, darling, you have to tell them. If they can prove it then he'll get the punishment he truly deserves."

His hands shook as he tried to reason his way out of his confession. "It'll double his sentence. I can't do that to him."

She looked at him in confusion. "Can't do what?"

"It's so long," he said.

She grabbed his hand to steady it but it was cold to the touch. He'd overexerted himself. This was always the first sign that they were in for a long night. "You need to calm down," she said.

"I can't...Mycroft will be so angry."

It took her aback. "Mycroft? Darling, that's not your responsibility."

Sherlock sat on the bed next to her and bowed his head. He was shaking. She grabbed him and pulled him close to her. "How long did he…?"

"He said that…."

He buried his head in her shoulder.

Martha hated seeing him this way. Any shred of confidence and hope seemed to have melted away. She couldn't shake the image of that look on his face when he told her that he'd seen his father put rat poison in his food. Sherlock was too afraid to not eat the food even though he knew it was contaminated and would be ill the entire night

"...he wanted to kill me," Sherlock said as he grabbed her arm for comfort.

Martha wiped away her own tears. "Why would he say that?"

"He blamed me for my mother," he said. "He thinks I helped her."

If she could, she'd go to that prison right now and shoot the man in the head. What kind of monster…

"Helped her? How could he think that. You were just a boy."

He lifted his head just a bit and looked her in the eyes. "She was all I had."

"I know," she said as she rubbed his back.

Martha grabbed the blanket folded at the edge of the bed and draped it around Sherlock's shoulders.

"I can't…" he said.

She pulled the blanket tight and rubbed his arm to warm him up. "You must. He did something despicable. He must be punished for that."

"I could have stopped her. He was right...maybe he was right. I mean she was sad and I was home and I could have…" he began to mumble as he pulled his body tight.

"Stop," she said.

"I needed to be punished. I could have stopped her. I could have…" his voice got weaker and weaker with each word.

Martha helped lay him down on the bed and propped his feet up. His eyes were distant and lost and he mumbled the same few words under her his breath, his lips hardly forming the words as he spoke. She let her hand run against his cheek and she kissed him on the forehead. Martha could not figure out why now, of all times, he'd chosen to tell her. She could only imagine how heavy that information must have weighed on him all this time.

"Remember what you told me?" she said softly as she rubbed his shoulder.

His eyes still darted all around but yet she continued in the hopes that some of her words would sink in.

"Remember what you told me when you made me that birthday dinner?"

His breathing slowed a tick but he still shook.

"You told me that I didn't deserve what Jasper did to me. You were right. You were absolutely right."

Her voice broke as he began to come back to her.

"You were just a boy. He was supposed to protect you."

He looked towards her in fear.

"Nothing he did to you was justified. Do you understand that? Nothing."

He looked away.

She grabbed his chin and forced his eyes back to hers. "Nothing."

He nodded.

"He could have killed you. I mean, Jesus, he could have killed you doing that and for what? You can't allow him to run the streets, Sherlock. He's mad. He's dangerous. I mean, doing that to a young boy….I can't even imagine." She gulped down the anger.

"Can you…" he said softly.

"Can I what?" she asked.

"Tell them."

She smiled. "Of course."

The lawyer acted fast. It had been a little over a year since Sherlock claimed the last dosages were administered and the lawyer was confident it would show up in tests his hair. Within hours there were lab techs in the flat taking sample after sample.

Sherlock sat in silence as men in gloves and protective clothing poked and prodded him. He was still so weak and in shock of the moment she wasn't quite sure how much of this he was even processing.

The lawyer pulled her aside.

"If this turns up positive, we can connect the heart failure to the poisoning."

Her heart fell. "Are they connected?"

He nodded. "Long-term exposure can damage organs. That would explain why he got ill so quickly. If we can get this is, then we can lock that bastard away for years. This is gold."

Gold. She was glad to hear it but it hurt to think of what poor Sherlock had to endure just to get his father punished.

Not even twenty-four hours later, the phone rang at one in the morning. Martha crept out of bed and fumbled for the light. On the fourth ring she picked it up.

"Hello?" she said groggily.

"Martha. We got it."

The lawyer. It took a moment to register what it was.

"The tests came back positive for arsenic. Doctors can confirm cause and effect with his heart. We have him for attempted murder."

"Attempted…" her mind still struggled to wrap around the words.

"The thing is," the lawyer said, "Sherlock's going to need to take the stand again."

"No," she said without even thinking.

The lawyer sighed. "Otherwise they'll assume he did it to himself. Martha, please, this is it. This can be what it takes to make sure this asshole pays."

She gripped the phone and mourned for the poor boy. "He's so worn. I don't think he can."

"I understand," the lawyer said. "Let me talk to him. Could I at least do that?"

She was afraid for Sherlock. This wasn't just a bruise and shout. This was serious. This was life-changing. For the last day he'd hardly been able to move much less speak articulately. he afraid this would be it. The stress, the guilt, the heartache could kill him.

But so would the regret.

"Yes," she said. "Talk to him."


	23. Chapter 23

Sherlock pulled his tie taut against his neck and steadied his breathing. All eyes were on him. He was the surprise witness that threatened to blow the case wide open. The trial had been delayed all because of him. His father's entire life was in the balance because of the next few words that came out of his mouth.

His hands shook as he looked at the prosecutor. They had sat in the law office for hours going over his statements but it never got any easier. It never stopped hurting when he had to remember the taste of the food as it crumbled in his mouth. It never stopped making him gag as he could feel the chemicals mix in his blood and make him feel like he was going faint at the table.

He felt the eyes on him. They were all looking at him.

Just breathe.

"Mr. Holmes, can you describe for us what you saw your father do?"

Breathe.

He looked out to Mrs. Hudson and wished she would run up to the stand and take him away. "He would make me dinner some nights. One night I looked in the kitchen and I saw him take the box of rat...the rat poison and put it into the eggs that he was preparing."

There was a stunned silence from the rest of the court.

"So you saw him put the poison into your food. How often did you see him do this?"

"At least once a week, maybe more. I couldn't always taste it," he said.

He felt the fear rise up through his throat.

"But you knew it was there?"

He nodded. "I did."

Mrs. Hudson put a hand to her mouth to keep from crying.

The lawyer looked out towards the jury as he asked the question. Sherlock knew exactly what he was going to ask next. "If you knew that he was poisoning your food," he asked. "Then why did you eat it?"

The words still rang in his ear. He could feel his father's fingers dig into his shoulder as he spoke. "He said he'd kill her."

"Kill who?"

Sherlock turned his gaze away from the crowd and focused on the podium in front of him. He could feel his heart beating hard and his focus slowly growing fuzzier. Any other day he'd be at home resting but he couldn't today. Today he had to be strong.

"Mrs. Hudson."

The nurses checked on him ever twenty-seven minutes. There was a shift change at 3:15 where Berenice left for the day and her replacement Sofia came in her spot. Sofia would lose track of time, she had in the past, and he'd probably have a few extra minutes.

There was time.

Berenice checked his blood pressure, took his temperature, and gave him a smile.

"Have a good night," she said.

Sherlock smiled back as to not tip her off.

The moment the door was closed, he began to work. He unplugged the machine as to not trip any alarms and then went through painstaking process of pulling out each IV. Trails of blood rolled down his forearm as he let the lines dangle above the floor.

John had brought in his belongings for when he was discharged. Inside was a change of clothes and a pair of his nice shoes. Sherlock made quick work of stripping off the gown and putting on the slacks and button-down. His limbs were sloppy and uncoordinated and his balance was off but he knew that this was his chance. Another shift change and it may be too late.

The last time his father had seen him was in the court room. He'd been so ill but he wanted to be there for the sentencing. He hardly remembered being there, just the hazy sounds of a jury speaking the verdict. As soon as he heard the words guilty, he had no memories. The next thing he knew, he was in the hospital and stayed there for two weeks after recovering from major surgery.

His father remembered him as weak and a failure. He had been something to use and manipulate. No more. He'd see what kind of man his son had become.

Sherlock forced himself upright and put a hand through his hair. As hard as it was to walk and move without the pain in his chest, he got to the door and peered out. Berenice stepped out of her last patient room and walked into the break room with a relieved expression.

That was his cue.

Sherlock opened the door and slinked around making sure no doctors were seeing who exited. He took small steps towards the elevator until he was out of view of the distracted staff. With a click of the button, the elevator doors swung open.

He'd made it.

He had twenty-three minutes. Twenty-three minutes to express a lifetime of anger.

"Mrs. Hudson? Why Mrs. Hudson?" the lawyer asked.

He felt nauseous. This was a mistake. This was the universe's way of telling he had pushed this issue too far. What if the jury didn't believe this? What if this just fed into the narrative that he was unstable. He couldn't go to a mental hospital. Jesus, he thought, that wouldn't happen, would it?

He looked desperately over at the jury. Some sat rapt in attention while others peered at their notepads. They were hard to read. What did they think of him? What would they do with him?

"Because she took care of me," he said.

The lawyer looked toward the jury. "After your mother's death," he said, "Mrs. Hudson served as almost a surrogate parent, is that right? She made you dinner, she helped you with your homework, she was around at night when your father wasn't there. Does that sound correct?"

"Yes," he said. "She was always there."

"So effectively your father was threatening to kill," the lawyer said as he emphasized 'kill', "someone you considered a second mother? Someone that you cared very deeply for."

"Yes," he said.

The lawyer strode over to Gregory and Sherlock made the mistake of following him with his eyes. For a moment he made eye contact with his father. There was such hatred behind the stringy hair and the overly crisp dress shirt. It only made the nausea worse.

"Gregory Holmes poisoned his own son and told him, even after he was aware of what was happening, that if he didn't consume the food that he would kill someone that Sherlock considered his own mother. Sherlock," he said after a long lingering judgmental stare at the defense attorney's table, "did your father say why he was doing this?"

He didn't want to think about it. The blood, the screaming, the tears. He didn't want to do it again…

"Yes he did," he said. "He said that it was a punishment."

The lawyer nodded his head. They'd talked about this for hours and it hurt the lawyer as much to bring it up as it as to make Sherlock talk about it. But they decided he needed to say it. It was important for the jury to know why.

"A punishment for what?"

He took a deep breath. All he could see was her pale face against the carpet and it made his chest hurt even worse. The words got caught in his throat as he struggled to speak. "For letting her die."

The lawyer bit his lip and looked down at his paper. They both knew that he couldn't say the words for Sherlock. "Letting who die, Sherlock?"

"My mother," he said. "For letting her die."

Nineteen minutes.

He grabbed the wall to keep the dizziness at bay until the wave of nausea and lightheadedness faded. Mrs. Hudson would be furious that he'd gotten up out of bed. If he had a nickel for every time that she caught him trying to escape from his Hudson-mandated "relaxation" times then he'd be a rich man. If he'd had a nickel for every time he snuck a quick walk around the block in while she was distracted, he be even richer.

The ICU floor was suspiciously quiet. There wasn't a police presence outside of any of the rooms yet, at least not an official one. John must have not had the opportunity to tell his whole story yet. There would be loads of officers within the hour.

Now all there was was Lestrade.

Of course it would be Lestrade.

Sherlock let the uncomfortable feeling in his muscles fade to the background. His body was controllable in the short term. Any pain could be ignored for the benefit of the mind. All he needed was ten minutes of clear headed thinking.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said as he approached. "I thought you were still being monitored."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm fine," he said.

Lestrade looked down at the ground uncomfortably. "Why are you down here?"

He tried to hide his look of surprise. "Why are you down here?"

Lestrade gestured towards the cup of coffee in his hand. "I just dropped John off at the station and was going to pay you a visit. Needed a little pick-me-up."

There was a hesitance to his voice as he spoke and he didn't look Sherlock in the eye.

"What aren't you telling me?" Sherlock said.

Lestrade looked away again. "What do you mean?"

He ignored the gnawing pain in his chest. "You're not looking me in the eyes. Your hands are fidgeting and you are expending unnecessary energy to distract me away from your face. You're hiding information. What you hiding?"

Lestrade looked through Sherlock at the doctor that was fast approaching them. "I wasn't supposed to say…"

"Say what?"

He grabbed the chair in front of him to stay upright.

"Sit down," Lestrade said.

"No."

Lestrade pointed to the chair. "I think you should."

He shook his head to stay focused. "No," he said, "tell me."

Lestrade sighed. "He, uh, they had him in surgery."

"Yes...and?" Sherlock said. He already knew the answer.

"Sit down," Lestrade said, his voice heavy and quiet.

Sherlock shut his eyes and let the news hit him in the gut. "Is he dead?" he whispered.

All he heard was the word. The word he had, for many years, wished were the answer to the same question but now seemed so hollow and worthless.

"Yes."


	24. Chapter 24

It didn't take long for Lestrade to realize that Sherlock wasn't supposed to be downstairs. His limbs were folded in on themselves as soon as he heard the news and he fell against the wall in a daze. Immediately the color drained from his face and it was clear that he was struggling to stay upright.

"Here we go," Lestrade said as he put his arm around Sherlock's waist and hoisted him up to a standing position.

"No," he mumbled. His eyes darted in all directions before finding Lestrade's face again. "How?"

Lestrade didn't want to make it worse. There was only so much Sherlock could take and the fact that John wasn't just at the station, that he may be charged with murder, was too much. "The surgery...it was too hard on his body."

Sherlock looked at him desperately. "I need to go upstairs," he said breathlessly.

"Why did you come down here?"

Sherlock winced as he tried to walk. "Talk to him," he said. "Too late."

They tried to take another step but Sherlock's entire body weighed heavy on his shoulders. He beckoned over a wheelchair and lowered the distraught man inside. The less of his face that he had to see the better. This was not his strong suit. Dealing with Sherlock on a normal day was hard enough but with his father...he couldn't even imagine the pain.

A part of him was overjoyed to hear that Gregory Holmes had died and even happier that it had been John that had done it. There was a certain poetic justice to it all. There had been times all these years that he wished Sherlock would get to put this behind him but what he thought would be so cathartic appeared to be nothing but devastating.

"I'm getting you upstairs, okay?" Lestrade said as he began to roll the wheelchair down towards the elevator.

Sherlock's head bowed and he put his hands to his face.

"I'm so sorry," Lestrade said as he rubbed Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

The jury came back so quickly. Lestrade had made sure that he was available for the sentencing. It took a herculean effort to get the shifts change at the last minute, but it was worth it. It didn't matter how many nights he had to work, he wanted to see Gregory Holmes squirm in his seat. He wanted to see justice.

As much as he wanted to watch the monster, his eyes kept moving to Sherlock and Martha who sat three rows ahead. Martha had her arm around Sherlock with his fingers wrapped around his shoulder. Even from the back, Lestrade could see that Sherlock was not well. There was a laxity to his body and his movements were slow and dull. His brother was there as well and he kept looking over at Sherlock with such concern. He could only imagine how much it hurt the three of them to be in the courtroom all this time. All he wanted was for them to get justice.

The jury entered and the foreman looked over at the judge expectantly. Lestrade's heart beat in his ears as the mousy brunette pulled down her sweater and stood, ready to give her verdict.

Lestrade gripped his knee as the woman began to speak.

Please, he begged, do the right thing.

"...in the count of cruelty to or neglect of a child, we find the defendant…"

He looked away from Gregory and towards Martha and Sherlock. Her fingers gripped him even tighter and their bodies lurched forward in anticipation.

"Guilty."

He almost laughed with glee. Ten year sentence.

It had happened.

Sherlock had done it. He'd gotten justice.

Martha looked at her boys and there was a huge smile on her face. She pressed her head against his and pulled him in close.

"...in the count of wounding/causing grievous bodily harm with intent. Guilty."

Another six years at least.

Lestrade couldn't wipe the smile off his face. Only after the second verdict did he look over at Gregory Holmes. The man didn't have an expression. He was completely stone-faced and stared straight ahead. He sat upright in a grotesquely straight posture and didn't flinch as his lawyers mulled around him.

There was a bit of commotion in front of him. Mycroft shook his brother with an increasingly higher level of concern. Martha went from simply holding him in comfort to putting a finger to his neck and digging through her purse in panic.

"No," Lestrade said quietly. "Not now."

Martha let Sherlock's head rest on her shoulder as she grabbed a pill from her purse. Mycroft handed her his bottle of pop and the pair worked to feed the boy his medication. They did the whole process with such precision that hardly anyone noticed that Sherlock had passed out in Martha's arms.

Lestrade jumped up and walked towards the little family nestled at the end of the aisle. He knelt beside Mycroft. "Do you want me to call in an ambulance?"

Sherlock was terribly pale as he lay against Martha's shoulder.

"Yes," she said with fear in her voice. "Please."

Mycroft grabbed his brother by the arm and lifted him to his feet. "I need to get him out of here," he said.

Martha didn't say anything.

"He needs to lie down," he said.

She nodded. Mycroft easily moved his brother swiftly towards the exit. Heads began to turn towards the drama that escaped the courtroom. He could hear the groans of discomfort and worry as the poor boy was dragged lifelessly from the room.

"Are you all right?" Lestrade asked Martha. She sat in the seat, stunned. It took a few seconds before she even turned her head.

"Me?" she asked.

"Yes," he said with a sympathetic smile. "Do you want to come with me?"

She looked towards Gregory who had turned his head to observe the calamity on the other side of the room. Lestrade peered up for just a moment but it was long enough.

Gregory was smiling.

No, he was goddamn smirking.

Lestrade clenched his fists so tightly he thought that his fingers would snap. If he could, he would have jumped the benches and strangled the man where he stood.

The gall of him.

The absolute horror of his soul and the damage that he'd inflicted.

It was sickening.

Lestrade took Martha's hand and gestured to the door. "Come with me."

She snapped her gaze away from Gregory and back to Lestrade. She had tears in her eyes as she stood and followed him to the exit.

They got to the second floor and Sherlock began to mumble in his seat. His color had perked up but there was a lost look in his eye. Lestrade stopped the wheelchair against the side of the wall and knelt down next to him.

He had to snap to get Sherlock's attention. "What? What are you saying?"

"I need...to...I...talk…" he looked straight through Lestrade.

Lestrade looked behind him for a doctor. He hadn't seen Sherlock this disoriented since the drug days. It brought back all those memories of dragging the boy out of run-down houses and into the station so he wouldn't get arrested by another officer. He'd sit with Sherlock for hours as he came down from his frantic highs.

"Talk to who?"

Sherlock's hands reached out in the air as his eyes pleaded with Lestrade. "Talk...her."

Martha. Of course.

"Martha?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"Are you well enough?"

Again he nodded.

Lestrade knew that he should get Sherlock back to his room but he also knew that Sherlock would be in major trouble the moment the doctors got a hold of him. Not only had he escaped his room, he was also a blathering mess. The moment that they'd get him back in his bed then he'd be pumped full of sedatives to calm him down.

"Just a minute, okay?"

"Yes," he said quietly.

Lestrade moved the wheelchair quickly down the hall to keep his contraband out of view. Thankfully Martha's door was open and he spun the chair in like an accomplished Formula 1 driver.

Martha sat up in her bed just enough to see who had entered her room. She was still weak but she looked so much than the last time Lestrade had seen her.

"Oh my," she said as she gestured to Sherlock. "Why is in here?"

Sherlock looked up at her with such pain in his eyes. "He's…"

Her face fell with concern. "What happened, love?"

Lestrade moved Sherlock closer.

Sherlock stretched out his hands. "He's…"

Lestrade put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Gregory was injured in an attack."

"Gregory?" she asked with alarm. "Gregory Holmes?"

Lestrade nodded.

"He...he was injured?" she asked with panic. "How? Sherlock, why are you so upset?"

Sherlock looked up with tears in his eyes. "He's dead," he said.

Her face went white. "No. It can't be."

Lestrade moved Sherlock up to her bed and she grabbed his shaking hands. "I was going to talk to him."

She rubbed his hand with her thumb and shook her head back and forth in an attempt to process the information. "I don't understand. He's dead?"

"In surgery."

She smiled at Lestrade before turning her attention to the crumpled figure in front of her. "You didn't need to speak to him."

"I did," Sherlock said as he buried his head against the side of her bed.

"No," she said, "you have moved on, darling. You don't need him to feel any way towards you. He already had that chance and he gave it up for his own selfish reasons. You are strong now. You are exactly what he said you would never be."

Sherlock hit his fist against the bed. "But I wanted to show him that."

She smiled sorrowfully towards him. "I know. I know how that must feel."

"It hurts," he said so quietly that Lestrade could hardly hear him.

She shushed him in a sweet melodic tone. "It's all right, love. I'm here."


	25. Chapter 25

Martha shook as the paramedics hovered over Sherlock's body. The young policeman stood by her side with his hands on her arms to keep her from falling to the ground. This wasn't the worst that the boy had ever been but it was so out of nowhere. He'd looked so strong that morning. Usually he had many bad days before he collapsed. It worried her that it seemed so sudden. Even after such a soul satisfying day of karmic retribution, this is what Sherlock had to endure. It was never right. The poor boy always suffered.

He was pale, ashen, as the paramedic placed an oxygen mask over his face and raised his arm to take his blood pressure. A small crowd had gathered around them but she didn't take notice of them. All she did was watch the fluid motions of the young men as they examined her boy inch by inch while Mycroft spoke with such strength. All the while she just stood there, helpless. She was at the end of her rope. She could do no more. It was too much to bear. All she could do was watch.

"Do you want to sit?" the policeman asked.

She couldn't feel her legs. The fear had taken over her body and she was paralyzed.

"Ma'am?" he asked.

She gritted her teeth just to feel something besides the anxiety. "Let me stay."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open as the men placed the heart monitor electrodes on his chest. The color slowly returned to his cheeks as they injected something into his arm. It wasn't a miracle but he was coming back. She let out a gasp of relief as he turned his head towards Mycroft and gave a hint of a smile.

"He's okay," she said quietly.

"Looks like it," the policeman said.

Martha clutched the end of her necklace and gripped it tight. The edges of the gold-plated leaf that hung on the chain dug into her palm. The tears came to her eyes as they slowly lifted the boy on a gurney. Mycroft looked over at her and the fear on his face faded away. He nodded reassuringly as he pulled himself up to a standing position.

She walked over to him without thinking. Something was pulling her to Mycroft and Sherlock even with her entire body floating in a state of heightened anxiety for her boys. He put out his arms and wrapped them around her.

"He's stable," he said.

She nodded and tried to calm herself. "Stable...that's good."

"But he had an extended period of irregular heartbeats. They were concerned about that. His oxygen level was low when they checked it."

"I see," she said. That was something she could handle. The reality of the moment was slowly falling on her and becoming something she could work with-this wasn't her first rodeo with Sherlock's heart. All she needed was information.

"Okay," she said. "Do you want me to drive to hospital?"

He shook his head. "Let me. You're still shaking."

She grabbed her trembling hand. "Just nerves. I'm fine."

He gave her shoulder a squeeze. "I've got it."

It was then that there was a commotion coming out of the courtroom. Two policemen came out first and then two more with Gregory in tow. He still had a smirk on his face as his eyes darted around the lobby as they pulled him forward.

Her body moved again without her brain's acknowledgement. Suddenly she was across the lobby and headed straight to Gregory. There was no plan. There was no preparation for what she was about to do but yet it felt like it exactly right.

"Hey!" she shouted.

All four policemen turned around and one put out his hand to push her away but yet she kept going. She barreled through the police and straight to Gregory.

"He almost died," she shouted. "You goddamn bastard…"

And then he smirked. "Oh well."

It all happened in an instant. She felt the impact of her hand against his face. The slap was so loud that it echoed through the lobby. Gregory lost his balance and crashed the shoulder of the policeman next to him.

Her entire mind went blank as she waited for the inevitable retribution from the police that stood in front of her. But when she came back to reality they were gone and Gregory simply staggered out of the building in pain.

Her hand ached but it felt so good.

That man couldn't be punished enough.

Mycroft came behind her with a hint of a smile on his face. "You ready?"

She clenched her first to preserve the crackling pain of the palm of her hand. "Absolutely."

John sat back in the chair as the ache of his wounds pounded in his ear. He should have insisted on getting stitches but he'd be out soon enough. There would be time for that later. No one would blame him for defending himself and when Gregory woke up then all would be revealed.

They'd kept him in the interrogation room for almost ten minutes alone. As the moments clicked on he grew more and more nervous. If this was just a courtesy then why were they taking so long? A part of him grew suspicious. There was something wrong. There was something they weren't telling him.

Just as his mind began to escape down the rabbit hole the door opened and a younger detective that he didn't recognize stepped inside. He went out of his way to avoid eye contact with John and sat down with a nervousness that seemed unwarranted for this kind of case.

"Dr. Watson," he said, "do you need anything?"

John shook his head. "I'm fine. What is going on?"

The young detective looked towards the mirror and pleaded with his eyes. When no one came to his aid he sighed and opened the file in front of him.

It was as he looked down at the papers that John suddenly recognized him. It was the detective from the cell when Sherlock collapsed. The poor man was still shaken and there was something holding him back from saying what he wanted to say.

"Can you tell me where you were at 5:15 tonight?"

He pointed to the blood that soaked his shirt. "I was attacked by Gregory Holmes. He had a knife. I disarmed him."

"And what happened after you disarmed him?"

John didn't remember. The whole attack was a blur. All he remembered was holding the knife and the impact of it in Gregory's body as the adrenaline took over his body. "He came towards me. He was trying to strangle me."

It was a lie. A goddamn lie. He felt sick telling it.

"And you stabbed him?"

John gulped back the bile that rose up his throat. "I had no other choice. He wanted to kill me."

The detective looked broken. "He didn't make it," he said quietly.

John's entire body grew bone cold. "What?"

"He coded in surgery. They couldn't bring him back."

"No," John said as he felt himself grow light-headed. "He can't be. He can't…"

"Witnesses said you weren't being attacked when you stabbed him."

John put his head in his hands. "No, you don't understand…"

"One witness said that you had the knife and he was on the ground-"

John mumbled into his hands. "He's a monster. He deser-" and then he stopped himself. Don't say anything stupid even if you believe it.

"-and you attacked him without any provocation."

John felt the terror of the moment rise through him. "But he attacked me first. He stabbed Mrs. Hudson. He's a killer. I was just defending myself."

The detective rose from his seat and grabbed the handcuffs that he had stored in his jacket pocket. "Dr. Watson, please stand up."

John's entire body fell slack as he tried to make sense of what was happening. "No. This isn't right. I was just trying to help… I was just…"

The detective put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry," he said quietly.

He choked back the tears. "It's not fair," he whispered.

"I know," the detective said. "Please, just stand up. Don't make me do it for you."

John wiped the errant tear that rolled down his cheek as he stood up. "Can I call someone?"

"Later," the detective said. "After we do all the paperwork."

John put his hands behind his back and waited for the click of the handcuffs.

"John Watson," the detective said, "I'm arresting you on the charge of the murder of Gregory Holmes."

The handcuffs closed around his wrists and John's mind fell to black as he was pushed out the door of the interrogation room.


	26. Chapter 26

"He's what?"

Lestrade stood against the wall and readied himself for the inevitable Sherlock tirade.

"Sherlock, you have to understand…"

Sherlock had perked up considerably in the last few hours and the news of John's arrest had only served to excite him even further. He pulled off the blanket that covered his legs and began to swing them over the side.

"No, no, no," Lestrade said as he went to grab the escapee.

Sherlock batted him away. "You will release John. You will release him right this instant."

Mycroft sat against the wall with his head bowed. He'd been released a few minutes before and was still exhausted from his long night. There was a bandage on his head and his eyes were heavy and weary. The entire time Lestrade had been there the older Holmes hadn't said a word.

"It's not up to me," Lestrade said.

"It's not up to you? Unbelievable. You know better than this. You know what my father was capable of. You of all people should know." Sherlock's face stung with fury.

Lestrade didn't have the words to express how furious he was with John's arrest but he didn't want to lead Sherlock on. As terrible a man as Gregory Holmes was, John still had attacked him and the shopkeeper that saw the whole thing said that Gregory was defenseless at the moment of his stabbing.

"I'm going to go back and I'm going to do what I can but I don't want to promise anything," Lestrade said.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and his fingers gripped tight to his blanket. "You will get him out of there. John will not have to suffer because of my father. Do you understand?"

Lestrade sighed. "He stabbed your father. He killed him…"

"I don't care," Sherlock said. "Let John go."

Mycroft looked up with a worn expression. "Sherlock, please. Stop this."

Sherlock snapped his head towards his brother. "He hired someone to kill you. You! This is incomprehensible. Get your people on this. Get this taken care of."

Mycroft put his head in his hands. "Can you just shut up?" he said with such exhaustion.

"Pardon?" Sherlock snapped.

"Just shut up," Mycroft said.

Sherlock looked at Lestrade with surprise as his brother readied himself for the conversation. Mycroft was dead tired but he was a Holmes. He needed to get his opinion expressed even if it killed him.

"That's what I thought you said. Why should I? What part of this is reasonable? They need to know that this isn't all right. Lestrade needs to get down there and fix this. He needs to fix this!" Sherlock shouted.

Mycroft slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair. "Our father is dead. Do you realize that? He's dead. Can you stop being so goddamn selfish for just a moment? I mean, Jesus, can't you think of anyone else?"

Sherlock looked at his brother in supreme confusion. "Why would I care that he died? Why do you care?"

"Because he was our father," Mycroft said.

Sherlock's face fell. "He was..how could you still care about him? After all he did?"

"I don't know," Mycroft said. "I just-"

Sherlock shook his head. "All these years. Did you visit him in prison?"

Mycroft didn't look at his brother.

"Did you?" Sherlock said a little louder.

Mycroft softly nodded.

"Why? What purpose did that serve? What...did you talk about me? Gossip about the worthless twit that you financed with your money? Did he know about the drugs? About the arrests? Did you tell him everything, Mycroft or just the good bits?"

Sherlock's heart rate quickened as he spoke and his face grew paler with each word but neither brother paid notice.

"We didn't talk about you."

Sherlock scoffed.

"We didn't. Sherlock, it wasn't about you. I didn't have Mother anymore. I needed someone else. Someone that cared-"

Mycroft stopped himself as Sherlock's face contorted into a faint mask of its former self. Years of trauma and pain washed over him in an instant. "He didn't care," he said quietly. "He used you. He used you and then threw you away. How dare you speak about him like he's someone to be mourned. He does not deserve that."

"Sherlock…" Mycroft said.

"Get out," Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft sighed. "That's not what I meant."

"Get out."

Lestrade walked over to the stricken Mycroft and motioned towards the door. "I can take you to the station. We can sort this out there."

Mycroft looked at his brother with such regret. "I'm sorry," he said. "You know how much I worried about you."

Sherlock laughed a mournful angry laugh. "Not enough to take me away. Not enough to save me from years of this," he said as he gestured to his hospital bed.

"I couldn't," Mycroft said. "There was no way."

"There's always a way," he said. "You just didn't take it. And I-"

Mycroft got up from his chair. "Just stop it."

"And I'm the one that suffered. Not you. So go mourn your daddy. I'll be worrying about things that matter. I'll worry about people that matter. Lestrade, are you going to do this for me or not?"

Lestrade grabbed Mycroft's arm to steady him. "I'm going back. I'll try."

Sherlock collapsed back against his pillow. His color had drained from his face and his eyes grew more distant by the second. "Do it," he said.


	27. Chapter 27

He forced his way inside to talk to the boy. Bradford was supposed to book him but Lestrade wanted to talk to Sherlock first to salvage whatever chance the kid had at getting out without a criminal record.

They'd brought him in as part of a bust on a local drug house. Half a dozen dealers and users were scattered throughout the station but they'd kept Sherlock separate. They didn't associate with him and he didn't much care that his buddies were being taken away.

Sherlock sat on the floor of his cell and drew circles on the ground with his finger. He was hours from his last hit and the effect of whatever he'd taken had long worn off. He didn't look up as Lestrade opened the door to his cell and walk inside.

"What the hell?" Lestrade said quietly as he sat down next to Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Why were you there?"

Sherlock moved his body away from Lestrade.

"I'm trying to help you."

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

They'd met a few times since the trial. Martha Hudson had a number of questions and he was more than happy to help her with whatever shortcuts he could provide. But he could tell that Sherlock never quite warmed up to him. There was always a glint of distrust in his eyes as they spoke.

"Why? Because this is not you. You're better than this."

"Better than what?"

Lestrade gestured out to where the other degenerates were being held. "Those people they arrested you with-you're not stupid. Sherlock, why were you there? Where are you living?"

He shrugged.

"Martha's?"

He shook his head.

"Why not?"

"I don't want to talk to her right now," he said with a huff.

Lestrade sighed. "Why not? Maybe she can help you."

He picked at the sleeve of his shirt. "I can't let her see me like this. She thinks I'm still at university."

Lestrade bit his tongue. The boy had only been away for two years.

"What was wrong with university?"

He slapped the ground with his hand. "Boring," he said. "Useless knowledge."

"You have to learn something," Lestrade said.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Not with those idiots. Waste of time. I will learn much more on my own."

Lestrade looked out at the silver bars that stared back at them. "In here?"

"This was an error. Won't happen again."

"You said that last time."

Sherlock nodded stoically. "This time it will be the last. I have work through the hospital starting Wednesday."

"That sounds promising."

He nodded. "Just for a week but it will lead to other projects."

There was such hope in his voice but Lestrade had seen this before more times than he could count. Even the most promising of the men that came into the station were damaged goods. There was faith that they could change but he never counted on it. It always led to disappointment.

But with Sherlock there was a glimmer of hope. Lestrade knew where the damage lay and while it was extensive and painful, he knew the path to tread. He knew what needed to be fixed.

"You can stay with me," he said.

Sherlock scoffed. "I don't think so."

Lestrade smiled back. "What? What's the problem? You don't like my place?"

He'd invited Martha and Sherlock over to his flat for dinner a few times after the trial. It was the least he could do.

"It's not that," Sherlock said.

"Then what?"

Sherlock picked at his cuticle. "I'm fine," he said. "I can take care of myself."

Lestrade nodded. There was no point in pushing the kid. He had been pushed around enough as it was. "I understand."

"Are you going to arrest me?" he asked quietly.

Lestrade shook his head. "You didn't have anything on you. I mean I could because you were there but I don't think that's necessary…"

Sherlock smiled just a bit. "Thank you," he mumbled.

Lestrade put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You should go out. Make friends." Just as the words came out of his mouth he immediately regretted them. This wasn't just some kid-this was a boy who had worked his whole life to separate himself from the rest of the world and for good reason. Making friends was the least of his problems.

Sherlock winced at the idea of meeting people. "I'm fine," he said.

"My girlfriend...she made this amazing cake the other day. Would you like a slice?" he asked. "She's a fantastic cook. You should see her bake. Oh it's like a master at work."

Sherlock looked up. "You moved in with her yet?" he asked.

They'd only been dating a few weeks and the comment struck him as odd. "Moved...moved in? Why would you ask that?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "You clearly see a future with her."

"A future...I don't know about that," Lestrade said as he sidestepped the conversation. Lucy was a nice girl but he didn't necessarily imagine a lifetime with her. But there was something about the bluntness of how Sherlock spoke.

Maybe…

"You know," he said, "if you ever want, there's always a job here for you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Here?"

"Well not in a jail cell, no," Lestrade said with a smile. "I mean in the station. You're a smart man. We can always use another brilliant person making us all look bad."

Sherlock shrugged but not in his usual way. Lestrade knew that the kernel of an idea had made its way into the boy's head.

"You'll think about it?"

Sherlock nodded ambivalently.

"Good," Lestrade said. "Now cake."

John felt sick as Harry left the room to yell at the officers that had arrested him. It had taken her all of twenty minutes to run out of her office and into the station. When she walked through the door he was afraid she'd might pistol-whip a few people before she actually made it to where they held him.

She had them transfer him to a room so they could talk but all she did was throw the files on the table, tell him to read them and ran out of the room screaming at the top of her lungs for the "bastards who arrested her brother to show their faces". He could help but feel a bit more comfortable knowing that his sister was ready to fight for him.

The feeling didn't last long as he began to peek at the files that she'd left for him. It was her casework to help get Sherlock released and had already been flagged and highlighted. He started at page one and hardly got three paragraphs in before he felt nauseous.

Harry's legal mind had gone straight for the accusations and she seemed to have read them on a more technical basis all while looking for the bigger patterns in Sherlock's upbringing to help make the case for his devotion for Mrs. Hudson.

The medical reports were most skipped over and that was what stopped John in his tracks. Each sentence was filled with another terrifying note. Starting at the age of seven, Sherlock would go for yearly check-ups and the doctors would note odd bruises and strange bits of inflammation in joints that were not consistent with his level of physical activity. They would keep making notes and express their concerns but then wrote it all away with the half-hearted excuses of a boy.

SH says fell at school on playground.

SH claims football injury - pain in arm due to fall

The list of bullshit excuses went on for pages. A nurse made a note that she suspected he had a broken rib after asking him to bend over but the doctor wrote it off by saying that Sherlock didn't complain of any pain during his examination.

John wanted to scream at the ignorance of the doctors that had looked at Sherlock all the years. All it would have taken was one person to go the extra mile and maybe it wouldn't have turned into such a disaster.

He could barely looked at the half-inch tall stack of papers detailing Sherlock's late teens, after the heart issues. When they finally admitted him into the hospital, the list of what was wrong with him stretched over two pages. Not only was he wildly malnourished and underweight, he had two broken fingers and a shoulder that had been dislocated and reset incorrectly which led to constant irritation and inflammation. His ribs had been broken, healed, broken again and were in staggered rates of repair. One x-ray showed a ragged edge of a fractured rib hovering dangerously close to his lung. There was evidence of at least two concussions and a hairline fracture in his skull. The bones in his wrists were deformed and it was a miracle he could even write much less do anything else.

The list went on and John felt like crying right then and there. It wasn't even the physical pain that Sherlock must have felt having to walk on sprained ankles or go to school with a concussion. It was the fact that no one seemed to actually care enough to do anything about it. The doctors made comments but backed away almost immediately. It wasn't until he was in near organ failure before someone actually made the note:

Suspected abuse. Police called.

By then Sherlock's heart as well as his kidneys were beginning to shut down. He had been in and out of consciousness and only woke up long enough to get his father arrested. His hospital stay seemed endless and, from the doctors' notes, it was miracle he even survived.

The more he read, the more he felt justified.

Sod them if they put him in jail. He was glad he'd killed the bastard.

He'd spend the rest of his life in jail if it meant that monster was gone.

His heart skipped a beat as the door opened. He instinctively tossed the folders on the table and pushed them away.

"John?"

Mycroft looked more exhausted than any man had a right to be. "You're out?" John asked.

He nodded. "Have a nurse to monitor me. I couldn't spend another minute there." As Mycroft tried to cross the room he lost his footing for just a moment and grabbed the table for balance.

"You should go home," John said.

Mycroft shut his eyes and shook his head. "I wanted to see you."

"Me?" John swallowed his fear.

Mycroft grabbed a seat and collapsed into it.

"Is Sherlock all right?" John asked.

"He's fine," Mycroft said.

John could feel the sorrow radiating off of Mycroft. "Are you?"

Mycroft looked up with tears in his eyes. "Am I what?"

John bit his tongue and tried to find the right combination of words. "I'm so sorry."

There was dense silence in the room. As hard as it was to say it, John had read through the folder. Sherlock's injuries were scattered on every page but Mycroft was nowhere to be found. He had been spared. He hadn't had to suffer, at least not in the same way.

"You're sorry?" Mycroft said, surprised.

John nodded. "I just...he came at me. I didn't know what else to do."

Mycroft smiled. "You knew what to do, John. You don't have to play naive with me. It doesn't suit you."

John nodded. "You're right. I don't know what happened. He came had the knife and then it all just went blank. Instinct kicked in, you know?"

"I know," Mycroft said as his eyes lowered. "I just wish I could…"

His words trailed off into the distance.

"You could what?"

Mycroft waved away the sudden emotions that had taken over him. "This is foolish. I should go."

John put out his hand to stop him. "No," he said. "It's not. Tell me."

Mycroft saw the files on the table and grabbed them.

"Harry left them…" John said impotently as Mycroft paged through the documents. He made no expression as he looked at the words that summed up his entire childhood-the words that caused him such agony.

"You know that I tried, right?" Mycroft said. "I mean I did, despite what Sherlock may have told you."

John sat back and tried to think of the last positive thing Sherlock had said about his brother. The words did not come.

Mycroft patted the folder. "I took him to the doctor every time. Even when we were young. I looked older and they didn't question it. Every time I told the doctor what was happening and they would turn right around and ask Sherlock if it was true. And every time he would deny it. Every time! It didn't matter what I said. I just...it hurt, John. I tried to get him to talk but he just wouldn't…"

"He was scared," John said.

"Of course he was," Mycroft said. "So was I."

A moment passed as Mycroft turned away to collect himself.

"I just wish I could have seen him one last time."

John felt a wave of guilt run through his body.

"Not to laud him with love, you know. I mean just to say goodbye. To end the story."

"Of course," John said.

Mycroft picked at the edge of the folder. "He never laid a finger on me, not once. The entire time I lived in that house he never said a cruel word to me. It was all saved for Sherlock. I would even bait him-I'd tell him that I failed a course or had crashed the car but there was nothing. It was coldness. He didn't care either way for me."

John looked at him with confusion. "But he didn't love you. Not striking you is not the same, you know that?"

"Of course I do," Mycroft said, "I'm not an idiot."

But John could see the childlike look of abandonment in Mycroft's eyes. "It's not your fault. You didn't have power over your father. He played you two against each other. By not touching you he showed his dominance. He showed his control and that's even more twisted, more cruel. Don't let that continue. He's gone, Mycroft. You have to let his power over you go."

Mycroft sighed. "How did you do it?"

"Do what?"

He pointed towards his shoulder. "After you came back. How did you let it all go?"

John tried to think of the last time that he really felt the trauma of the war take over him. At first it was constant. Every noise would ignite his brain and send him into another world. But now it was calmed. Every so often an image on the news or a sudden noise would alarm him but not to the same extent. It wasn't that he'd grown accustomed to it. Something had changed.

"You have to accept it as fact," John said. "It happened, you can't change it, but you can live within it and use others to help you. Hell, I sat in a flat by myself for months thinking how much easier it would be to just off myself instead of thinking about being shot at one more time. But now I have people around me who let me move on. You have to forgive, forget and keep moving."

Mycroft sighed. "He's still so angry."

"Of course he is," John said, "but not at you. Just be there and help each other. That's all you can do."


	28. Chapter 28

Mycroft lifted up his phone and tapped the screen with his fingernail. "I need to give this to your lawyer."

"Your phone?"

He nodded. "Three weeks ago Father called me. I thought he was drunk so I didn't pay much mind to what he spoke about but I recorded it anyhow-I always recorded him just in case."

"Of course."

Mycroft rubbed his forehead. "He threatened Sherlock. I should have said something. I should have told someone but I didn't."

John's heart hurt for Mycroft's guilt. "You couldn't have guessed he'd ever do something like this."

"I should have, John. He was so angry but he was always angry, you know? I just assumed that he was letting off steam and would go back to whichever pub he'd emerged from."

"What did he say?" John asked.

Mycroft sighed. "He said that he'd hurt Sherlock and everyone that'd put him in prison. He knew that you were living in the flat. He mentioned you, too. I just figured-"

"He mentioned me...by name?"

Mycroft nodded.

"And you have this on your phone."

It might enough. There was a chance that this could fix this. It was worth a shot.

"Harry's in the other room. Please, Mycroft."

Mycroft squeezed the phone in his fist. "I will," he said. "None of us deserved any of this. This is all my fault. I could have stopped this."

"What he did was not your fault," John said. "It never has been."

He cast his eyes down to his feet. "This time he took it too far," he said quietly.

"Make it right," John said. "Let this end."

Mycroft nodded triumphantly. "You're right," he said.

As he left John held his breath and prayed that this could be what it took. This nightmare was finally nearing its end point. Someone needed to catch a goddamn break-they deserved that much.

Sherlock sat with his back against the wall of nondescript brick building. He hadn't planned on stopping but he couldn't walk any farther. The ground kept slipping from underneath him and his head shook the world to the point where he could no longer move without falling. So there he sat.

He had overdone it this time. Six pills of his heart medication had gotten him an extra gram more than he usually got with Mycroft's weekly stipend and like an idiot he'd done it all at once. It was too much.

His chest ached as he forced his body to calm itself while the drugs imposed their own will to his nervous system. It created a tumult through his entire body as he struggled to keep his heartrate down when the drugs forced it right back up.

He'd sat on the street for the last fifteen minutes and each second was harder than the last. If he didn't calm down soon than this would be the end. He would go into cardiac arrest on a sidewalk with cocaine in his system. Mycroft would have to go to the morgue and identify him with track marks up and down his arm.

And Father would win. He would be right.

Sherlock will amount to nothing.

Sherlock shut his eyes and embraced his destiny. This was it. His heart would steadily beat a bit too fast until it hit critical mass. The arrhythmia would kick in and then it would just be a matter of minutes until it was over.

He couldn't help but feel scared.

This wasn't what he wanted.

He grabbed at the leg of his pants and buried his tear-stained face in the folds of the fabric.

It hurt.

It hurt to breathe.

Just keep breathing.

It will end soon.

The sound of a car hummed in the distance as his tears fell against his pant leg and seeped through to his skin.

Stupid, Sherlock. Can't even do it on your own, huh? This was why you were punished. You can't even handle your own life.

You deserved every second of it…

He gripped his leg as his chest tightened. It hurt so much just to try to relax. It seemed impossible.

"Sherlock?"

He didn't have the strength to move from his stance.

A gentle hand lay on his back. "You all right, mate?"

He shook his head.

"Can you stand up?"

He wasn't so sure that he could.

"Let me help you. Just going to grab your arm."

He felt a hand grab his right arm as the other wrapped around his waist. His entire body felt heavy and laden with exhaustion. Someone he was on his feet but he rested heavily on the shoulder of the man next to him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man from the jail cell. The policeman…

Lestrade.

He was here.

"Let's get out of here, all right?"

Sherlock tried to walk but his gait was unsteady but in the arms of Lestrade the fear seemed to fade away. His heartbeat started to calm.

"Are you arresting me?" he asked quietly.

Lestrade pointed to the blue sedan that was parked against the side of the road. "Off duty."

"No hospital."

Lestrade nodded. "That's fine. You're looking better already anyway."

Sherlock knew it was a lie but the gnawing pain in his chest had calmed to a dull roar.

"My flat's just around the corner," Lestrade said.

Sherlock maneuvered his body as fell into the backseat of Lestrade's car. "Your flat?"

"Just a little rest and a warm meal. You don't need to move in or anything. My fiancee can't wait to meet you."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you," he said in a voice just above a whisper.

Self defense.

Harry had already gotten it down that far before Mycroft had even walked in the room. Ten minutes between the two of them and John was out. He didn't ask what they had done and what souls they had sold to get him let out but he was free.

He was free.

It didn't feel real.

Harry drove him straight back to the hospital while they both squealed with glee. He hadn't had that much fun with his sister in years. They skirted around the issue that John had still committed murder but it seemed better left unmentioned. He vacillated between extreme guilt and extreme fulfillment at slaying the dragon. With Harry, it was all dragons.

He wanted desperately to speak with Sherlock but he was asleep. All his pent up energy needed to go somewhere. He wanted to talk to someone who would be just as excited.

Mrs. Hudson was awake and in her room watching the news on her television. As he walked in her face lit up and she smiled at him like she hadn't seen him in years.

"John," she said with such softness. "Come here."

He went in for a hug and after the day he'd had, it was exactly what he needed.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

She smiled. "Just fine. How are you?"

He wasn't sure how much they'd told her. It all seemed best left unsaid. "Doing well. How is Sherlock?"

She shook her head. "He stressed himself speaking to Mycroft. Those boys...they just can't see eye-to-eye. It's so hard to listen to them sometimes."

"They were fighting?"

"Oh yes. The nurse, Bethany I believe, she told me all about it. Oh John, it was terrible the things that Sherlock was saying. But he's hurting so badly…"

"But his heart-"

She smiled. "They gave him a sedative to calm him. The nurses used to need to do that all the time with him. The boy is hard to calm."

"You're telling me," John said.

They shared a laugh.

John took a deep breath and struggled with how to bring up the elephant in the room.

"What is it, love?"

"Well," he said, "I was at the station and Harry showed me her research on Sherlock. All the statements from when he was a child. It was just a lot to take in."

"It was a lot at the time too. Sherlock was a very damaged boy. But so strong."

John fought back the anger. "But how did it go on long?"

"His mother," she said. "Once she was gone, it was just Sherlock and his father. The boy was scared to death of the man. He had nowhere else to go."

"His mother…" John said realizing that he had never heard Sherlock mention her before.

"Terrible. He found her."

"Found her where?"

Mrs. Hudson sighed as she recalled the story. "He told me this much later. Evidently she had told Sherlock to go to his room and tidy up for visitors that were coming later. When he came back early she told him to leave and prepare the kitchen. After a bit of time he became concerned when she didn't come out of her bedroom. He knocked and screamed for her but there was no answer. So he grabbed a hammer and hit the door until it opened. He said it took him almost five minutes to get inside the bedroom all while screaming for her to open up. Oh, John, it broke my heart."

He almost didn't want to know but yet he asked. "What happened?"

Mrs. Hudson wiped away the tear fell down her cheek. "She'd taken a knife to both her wrists and just lay on the ground. By the time he found her it was too late."

"Jesus."

She shook her head. "The poor boy. He was devoted to her and she was devoted to his father. That's why she couldn't bear it anymore, I suppose."

"I can't even-"

She turned to him and put out her hand. "John, you mustn't let him know that you know any of this."

"Why?"

"John, you can't. It's such agony for him just to hold it all inside of him but it's his pain to bear. He hardly could tell the lawyers and doctors what had happened. What you read took years of struggling and there is no knowing what else there was."

"But, we could talk-"

"No," she said. "He can't think that you know. It will change how you look at him."

"It won't."

"It will."

John knew she was right.

"He's had enough pity," she said. "He has worked so hard just to appear normal. Just let him have that gift."

He suddenly felt what it was like to be Sherlock; to know so much about someone else in an instant. Every neurosis and tick was now coated with a theory and assumption and he would never be able to be around Sherlock again without second-guessing his every move.

As much as he wanted to commiserate and be that friend that Sherlock never had, Mrs. Hudson was right.

Sherlock could never know.


	29. Chapter 29

John paced outside of Sherlock's room for ten minutes before finally walking through the door. The terrible words from the reports still rattled in his head. All he could think of were the stories and the pictures that the police had taken for the trial. The bruises and cuts all over Sherlock were sickening. As hard as he wanted to, he knew it would be difficult to look at his friend without seeing scars all over his body.

Sherlock had perched himself up against a stack of a pillows and stared at a news program that played on mute. As John walked in, Sherlock's gaze shifted slightly towards his new guest.

"Did Mycroft…" Sherlock began.

John nodded. "He found a way. I'm out."

Sherlock shut his eyes and took a deep breath. "Good. Hand me your phone, will you?"

"Nice to see you,too."

Sherlock glared.

"Where's yours?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose it's still at the station. I just need it for a moment."

John handed over his phone and as Sherlock went to grab it, he saw the scars on his arm from the second-degree burns that he received when he was a teenager. It was in the report-Sherlock claimed that he'd mishandled a pot but it was clearly in the shape of a fire poker. John's eyes lingered for just a moment too long. He prayed that Sherlock didn't notice but he knew that was a fool's errand.

Instead of the inevitable snide comeback, Sherlock simply pulled his arm back and twisted the scarred area away from John's eyeline.

"How is she?" Sherlock asked as he tapped on the phone.

"She? Mrs. Hudson?"

He nodded.

"I just saw her," John said. "She's looking well."

Sherlock didn't respond. As he looked at the phone, his lips trembled, fell and then quickly regained their sternness as Sherlock avoided interacting with reality.

"Have they said anything...the doctors I mean," John asked.

No answer.

John crossed his arms and postured himself to appear as impatient and irritated as possible without having to say as much.

"Have they?"

Nothing.

John stepped forward and was ready to snatch away the phone to punish Sherlock but as he got closer, Sherlock turned his burnt arm away and put a hand over the injuries.

"What is it?" John asked.

Sherlock set the phone down. "What did you see?"

"Pardon?"

"What did they show you? How much did you see?" Sherlock spoke in short bursts and looked out in front of him.

John swallowed his words. He wanted to reveal as little as possible. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Sherlock scoffed. "You're an awful liar. Did you see it all or just the good bits?"

John took a step back and strongly debated simply leaving the room all together. There was no right answer to the question. No matter what, Sherlock would know the truth. He was just the vessel.

"It was Harry's research for your case. She thought it would help me-"

"Help you?" Sherlock said with a twisted smile. "To what? To feel better about killing a man? Was it supposed to make you feel a bit less guilty? And do you?"

John felt his chest clench. "I did it to help you. I don't care about what he did to you before…"

"But you know. You know what he did."

"Sure," John said, "but that doesn't change a thing."

Sherlock grabbed his blanket and pulled it up to his torso. "Of course it does. How could it not?"

John took a wary step towards Sherlock. "It's terrible what he did. Horrifying. I can't even imagine."

Sherlock bowed his head.

"But this changes nothing."

"Stop saying that," Sherlock said. "I could see it in your face the minute you walked through the door. There's pity all over your face. It disgusts me."

"Jesus," John said, "what did you expect would happen?"

Sherlock shifted in his bed. "Me? What did I expect?"

"Yes. You hide this from me for all this time and then I find out about it from medical records and court transcripts? You understand this made me look foolish. If I had known-"' John had no end to his sentence. He couldn't imagine holding that information all this time.

Sherlock snapped. "Years of this," he said as he gestured to the hospital equipment around him. "I spent years of my life in hospital rooms because of him. Nurses and doctors came in with the same expression. There is no one in my life who sees me without also seeing my father."

John sighed. Until me.

"I'm sorry," John said.

Sherlock looked out to the window. "I don't need your sympathy."

"I don't pity you," John said.

"You do," Sherlock said. "Stop lying to me."

He did. It was impossible to not feel protective of the person that he had just read about. The child had been through hell and was somehow still functioning. "I don't feel pity. I'm just-I'm just angry."

"Useless emotions," Sherlock said.

John clenched his fists to keep from shouting. "I'm your friend," he said. "I care about you. If you want this to be forgotten, then bloody fine. It's forgotten. But that doesn't mean I can't be pissed off on your behalf. You understand me?"

Sherlock looked at him in shock.

"Do you?" John said.

Sherlock fiddled with John's phone. "Just don't ask about the…" he gestured towards the burn.

"I won't. I won't ask about any of them. I really don't want to hear about it."

Sherlock nodded.

"We have more in common than you think," John said.

"Doubtful," Sherlock said with a laugh.

John smiled back. "Do give me a little credit."

He slipped on his Oxford sweater and slicked back his hair. The last shreds of the drugs from the morning were slipping through his system and it gave him just enough energy to make an appearance at Mrs. Hudson's for lunch. He'd put off coming around for the last few weeks, always having some trumped up excuse but she sounded desperate. There was something wrong and his guilt outweighed his strong inclination to avoid her.

The sweater was a gift from Mycroft and was only worn around those who were not yet aware that he no longer attended the school he represented. Mrs. Hudson would be devastated to find out and he planned to keep the ruse going until absolutely necessary.

His own flat still remained unoccupied. It was to be her present to him when he graduated from school if he so wished. The pain of knowing that there was an empty flat blocks away from the warehouse floor he often slept on was agonizing. His back and neck constantly ached from the hard tiles and he never fully recovered from his flu as the warehouse was unheated and all he had to warm himself was the light jacket Mycroft had bought him for the spring.

The building's front door was opened when he got there.

Unusual, but not alarming.

He crept inside and took a few cautious steps towards Mrs. Hudson's flat. It was then that he heard the shouting. Immediately he raced to the door.

The voice sent chills down his spine.

Jasper.

He was back.

Sherlock walked through the front door and into her living room. The couple were fighting in the back room. He stood a moment to figure out what was happening.

"I don't have it!" Martha screamed.

There was banging against the wall as something was pounded into it. "Bullshit! I know you have it. Give it to me!"

"I don't!" she said with fear in her voice. Sherlock could hear that she was on the verge of tears. She was terrified.

Another bang.

This was enough.

He strode towards the bedroom door and swung it open so hard the knob slammed against the wall behind it.

Martha was on the ground, pressed up against her bed. She had her hands in front of her face and they were shaking. There was already a cut across her cheek and bruises around her eye. Jasper immediately spun around.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Jasper said.

Sherlock stood as straight as he could and moved towards Jasper. "Get the hell out of here."

Jasper laughed. "I have business with my wife."

Sherlock pointed to the door. "I said get out."

"Sod off," Jasper said as he turned back to Martha.

Sherlock grabbed his arm and spun him around. He squeezed hard until his own body ached under the pressure. With his other hand he punched Jasper square in the jaw. The man fell to the ground in a heap.

As Sherlock massaged his knuckles, he felt a blow to his own stomach. Jasper was already on his feet. His face was bloodied but he stood just as sturdy. The pain shook through his whole body and he felt nauseous but this was too important.

He pushed back the physical stimuli and went to grab the nearest heavy object. His fingers just barely grazed a decorative bowl before Jasper's own hand wrapped around Sherlock's throat. He felt the fingernails dig into his flesh and his windpipe bowing under the pressure. Each breath became harder and harder to take in as he was pushed against the wall. Jasper's eyes glittered a glassy glow as he pressed even harder. Sherlock could hear Martha's screams fade into the background and her feeble attempts at disarming Jasper only served to lightly rock him back and forth.

He grabbed at Jasper's shirt but it did nothing.

This was it.

All the struggle against his father and it would be at Jasper's hands that he finally died.

He felt the last bits of oxygen course through his system.

There was one more chance.

He had one more good hit left in him.

Nearly blind, Sherlock lifted his arm and swung in the general blurry direction of Jasper. He felt his hand collide with something hard and bony. It was then that the grip loosened around his neck and then slipped away completely.

He fell back against the wall and gasped for air. Martha ran up to him and wrapped her arms around him. "Love, sit down."

Sherlock collapsed to the ground and massaged his bruise airway. "What happened?" he said in a hoarse voice.

Jasper lay in front of them, unconscious. "You hit him...and it distracted him," she said.

"And?"

She lifted up the porcelain bowl with the pineapples painted on the front. "Then I hit him with my fruit bowl."

He leaned his head back against the wall. "Well done."

Martha took his hand in hers. "Thank you."

"It's nothing."

"No," she said. "You...you saved me. I don't know what would have happened."

He squeezed her hand back. "Least I could do."


	30. Chapter 30

Sherlock tapped his fingers against his legs. "What do you mean?"

"Sherlock, I didn't mean that-"

He gazed to the side. "What did you mean that we have more in common that I would think? What are you implying?"

John sighed tried to move away but it was too late. "I just...when I was a boy…"

Sherlock's eyebrow rose. "No…"

He folded his arms across his chest and turned his head. He hadn't thought about his mother's behavior in years. It had been so long and he'd buried so much of it. "This isn't the time. I shouldn't talk to you about this. Not now."

"Who?"

"Hm?" John asked.

"Who?" Sherlock said leaning in. "It's not Harry, that's clear from the way you speak of her. It's angry but at her drinking...your father? No, can't be. You get cards from him at Christmas-time with his new wife and that little blonde child. That's not it."

John looked away. "Forget it."

"Your mother," Sherlock said. "Your stories of her end when you're a boy but you speak f of your father meeting you at your military discharge. They clearly divorced but why?"

He sighed. This wasn't how he thought this day would end. He'd spent so many years avoiding her and her behavior. "She wasn't well," John said.

"Ill?"

John tapped his head. "Never diagnosed but I guessed bipolar. She would have these moods…"

Sherlock sat back and grimaced. He appeared to want to talk about this as much as John did.

"...and she would yell at my father for hours when he tried to help her. It was such nonsense. He would try to get her to calm down and just sit with us kids but she would be running around the house doing god knows what while Harry and I sat in the living room listening to it all unfold." He felt the stories tumbling from the locked vault in his heart. All the hurt and abandonment came to the surface.

"When I was thirteen, I had enough of it all. My dad is not a bad man but the way she spoke to him...it just infuriated me."

Sherlock wouldn't look at him. He cradled his arm and let his finger run along the scar. It looked like it oddly comforted him.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't-" John said.

"No," Sherlock said quietly. "What happened?"

He could still hear the banging of pots in the sink as she slammed them against the side so hard the porcelain broke. They were fighting about nothing. He had stood in the hallway and tried to decipher what she was actually mad about but it just a series of complaints that were weeks if not months old. It killed him to watch his father, a man who towered in John's eyes, just stand there and take the abuse. He just didn't realize that she was also holding a steak knife in her other hand.

"I got between them. I just stood there and didn't say a word. I just looked at her and pleaded with her to stop. She pushed me aside but then I came right back. I didn't want her to yell at him anymore. She tried to push me again. She was just angry and I was stupid. It was stupid…"

Sherlock shook his head. "Sounds logical. You were helping him."

"No," John said. "It wasn't helping. It was selfish."

He pulled down the collar of his shirt to reveal the gash that ran four inches near the base of his neck. "She panicked and lunged towards me with the steak knife in her arm. She didn't mean to, I know she didn't. But she did."

Sherlock didn't say anything but the glimmer of a grimace on his face said it all.

"Nicked my carotid. Nearly bled out on the kitchen floor."

"You forgave her?"

John shook his head in disbelief. "Why would you say that?"

Sherlock shrunk in his bed. "For what she did. That she hurt you."

"Eventually, I suppose. But never truly. She did so much…"

Sherlock gripped his blanket tight in his hands. "And yet-"

"Yet what?"

He looked worked over with exhaustion. "And yet you ask me to do that same."

"No," John said, "absolutely not. How could you?"

"Precisely. But they won't let me see him. They won't let me talk to him…"

John took in a sharp breath. "He's dead, Sherlock."

"That changes nothing…" he said with a croak to his voice.

"What do you...how could it not? What do want?"

Sherlock wiped away the pain from his eyes. "It hurts…" he said so quietly that John could hardly hear.

"What? What hurts?"

He pinched his temple. "All of it. All those years. I just...I want to talk to him."

John felt his chest tighten as Sherlock shrunk to the defenseless boy he was all of those years. "I don't think seeing him will help," he said earnestly.

His hands began to shake as he shut his eyes even harder. "You don't understand. Your mother...it's not the same. You think it is, but it's not."

"I know," John said. "I didn't mean to imply…"

"Finality."

"What?"

Sherlock looked up. "I need finality. I need to end this. I can't hold it any longer. Please, John."

He wrung his hands and looked out to the hospital floor. If there was anyone who could make this happen, it was him. He knew it was wrong, he knew it was dumb, but he also knew that Sherlock was his friend. Friendship means helping with the stupidest of plans and being there when they all fall apart.

"Of course," John said.

He had no one left to call. His hand shook as he found a payphone and sunk the money inside. It felt pitiful just dialing her digits and he couldn't fathom what he would actually say when she answered. All he had was the hope that she wouldn't be disappointed enough to toss him away like the others had.

His head ached and the bruises on his chest were still sore from the beating that morning. The guys that he shared the room with had begun to gang up on him. It was now three against one and they were doing everything in their power to get his weekly stipend from Mycroft.

The weight had fallen off and his clothes were dirty and ripped. He hadn't showered in days and his eyes were dark and puffy. If Mrs. Hudson even showed up, he knew the look that she'd have on her face and that made him nauseous. How could she bring herself to help him in the state he'd gotten himself into?

The phone rang and he held it tight against his ear.

"Hello?" she said.

He nearly cried at the sound of her voice.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Hudson?" he said in raspy voice.

"Who is this?"

"It's Sherlock."

She let out an involuntary gasp. "Goodness. Sherlock. Oh my. I haven't heard from you in weeks. Darling, are you all right?"

The words got choked up in his chest. He was so far from all right that he didn't quite know how to express it. "I need some help," he said.

"Oh course, love. What is it? What do you need?"

"I-I just need to talk to you. Could I come round?" He tried to hold back the fear and desperation in his voice but it was saturated in every syllable.

"Of course. I'll be here all morning."

The two mile walk to Baker Street nearly did him in. Two days of eating nothing but a handful of sweets that the others had stolen off a boy had left him weary. By the time he reached the flat he was on the verge of collapse.

Mrs. Hudson was already at the front door. The moment he knocked, she swung the door open. Her look of despair and horror was immediate and sudden. She put a hand to her mouth and looked as if she wanted to cry.

"Oh my. Sherlock, darling."

He held himself up by the doorframe. "Can I…" he gestured inside.

She put out a hand to help him in. "I have food out," she said in the absence of anything else to say.

He forced a smile and walked inside on shaking legs while she followed behind. "Do you want any water?" she asked.

He shook his head but really he was so thirsty. The more he asked for, the more alarmed she would be. As he sat down in the chair and grabbed one of the biscuits she'd laid out on a bright red tray, he couldn't hold it back any longer. He held his head in his hands and started to cry.

Immediately she ran over and grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him tighter. "What's wrong? What's going on?"

"I-I messed up," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Messed up? How?"

"I dropped out of school last year," he said. "I've been using Mycroft's stipend for…" He couldn't say it.

She put a hand on his arm where the needle marks were clearly visible. "I know about that. The detective called me a few months back. You don't need to be embarrassed."

He covered his arm, mortified that she knew. "I'm sorry," he whimpered.

"Sorry? Sorry for what?"

"You trusted me. You took me from him and for what?"

She sighed. "You're just finding your way…"

"He was right."

Mrs. Hudson pulled him in tighter and rubbed his back. "No."

"He was…"

She shushed him back the pain just kept rising.

"I'm weak. I can't stop. I just...all the nightmares just keep coming back. It's the only way to stop them."

"I know," she said, "but you're not weak. You're the strongest person I know."

"I gave up," he said. "I have nothing."

"No," she said. "You have a place to stay and a warm meal every night."

It took him a moment to realize what she was offering. "No," he said as he pulled away, "I can't. You said…"

"I don't care what I said before. Sherlock, this is for the long haul. I holed myself in my home for years after Dorothy passed. You can't expect miracles. What you've been through…"

He shook his head. "No excuses…"

"No," she said, "not excuses. Reality. You were hurt...physically injured. Think of the toll that does to a person. To their body. To their mind. It's not just a nick on the arm or a bump on the head. What happened to you would destroy most people. It would kill them. They'd fall and never get up. But you got up. You got up and you moved on."

"And now I'm here…" he said.

"And now you're here," she said. "That doesn't make you a failure."

He sighed. "I don't know if I can stop."

She got up and grabbed a glass of water. As she set it down she grabbed his hand in hers. "Just tell me what you need."

"A break," he said. "I just need to sleep."

She smiled. "Your bed's made, love. Stay as long as you want."


	31. Chapter 31

"Where is he?"

Martha's entire body jumped in shock at the sudden bellow from her front door.

As she turned around she saw Mycroft standing in the doorway with his hands clenched at his side in fury.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, feigning innocence.

"Don't play dumb with me. I know he's here. Is he in?"

He could barely look her in the eye and his whole body shook with anger.

"Mycroft, just wait a minute. He's-"

His head snapped towards her. "He's what? High?"

She didn't have an answer. "I don't know," she mumbled.

He pointed an accusatory finger at her. "This is your fault. You let him do this under your roof. You know...this could killed him. I mean. Jesus…"

She didn't want to tell him of the months that she hadn't heard from him and that he'd only been living in the flat for two weeks. It seemed easy to take the credit than to heap it onto Sherlock.

"He's just finding his way."

"Bloody hell he's finding his way," Mycroft said as he spun on his heels and headed for the staircase.

"Mycroft, don't…"

He took the steps in determined strides. "Someone has to put a stop to this. We're all he has left. And like hell he's using my money for this."

She felt frozen in place as she watched him rise the stairs. There was no telling how much of Gregory was in Mycroft. There was no telling what he would do to him next.

John had begged, borrowed and stole to allow Sherlock ten minutes in the morgue. Whatever connections they'd generated along the way made the hospital turn a blind eye to a patient coming down for a chat with a corpse.

Sherlock insisted on walking down without the wheelchair. His color was better but his legs still moved in a static robotic fashion as they exited the elevator. John tried to put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder to steady him but it was quickly pushed away. For whatever reason he wanted to come down completely on his own devices.

And there they stood with Gregory Holmes' body on the table, covered by a single sheet.

"Do you want me to go?" John asked.

Sherlock stared at the table in utter captivation. His eyes traveled up and down the body as if to register that it really did exist.

John didn't want to be there. Every cell in his body wanted to run away and not have to see the utter soul-wrenching experience of whatever Sherlock needed to do to feel his closure. There was no right way do it but he already felt the agony of a lifetime of pain on his friend's face.

The longer Sherlock looked at the body, the more that familiar look of certainty crossed his face. He shook his head. "It's true…"

"What's true."

He looked up. "He's dead. I just...he's dead, John."

"I know," John said.

Sherlock put out a hand and hovered it near the body. "I never thought this would happen."

John kept quiet. There was no telling how furious Sherlock was under the surface over his role in his father' demise.

"All this time I'd hoped for nothing more. I would beg for him to be gone. I'd sit in the car and ask for someone to hit us just so I wouldn't need to listen to him again."

"You were young…"

He shut his eyes and kept his hand just above his father's arm. "I just wanted him gone. I'd hide a knife under my pillow just waiting for the day when I had the nerve to go through with it. But I was a coward…"

"No," John said.

Sherlock's hand slowly clenched and his arm shook with rage. His entire face contorted as he began to pound his fist into his father's arm. The thud echoed through the room. Sherlock hit and hit, every ounce of his soul going into hurting the man in front of him.

"I hate you. I hate you," Sherlock kept repeating as he continued to pummel the body.

John couldn't watch another second. It was raw and so visceral that it made him ill. "Stop," John said.

Sherlock couldn't hear him. His shouts slowly faded to thready cries as he hit once more through tears.

"Why? Why did you do it?" he shouted.

John wanted to pull Sherlock away.

"Why? You could have killed me. You took my mother," he yelled as he grabbed tightly to his own hair and pulled.

John watched as Sherlock's color began to fade. "Sit down," he said.

As John approached Sherlock stood stunned with a broken stare.

"You're overdoing it," John said as he placed his hands on Sherlock's arms.

Immediately John felt a slap to his chest and a push to the ground. Sherlock ran to his father's neck and wrung his fingers around it. He slammed the body down on the table and dug his fingernails into the skin.

John jumped to his feet.

This was a mistake.

"Sherlock, stop," he said sternly.

There was the softest soft of a man choking back years of trauma as tears rolled down his cheeks and onto the hospital blanket.

"Leave me alone!" he shouted.

John moved forward. "No. You need to stop."

"Go!"

"This isn't what you wanted," John said. "This isn't closure. This is revenge."

Sherlock's grip loosened. "This what he deserves."

John took a cautious step forward and grabbed Sherlock's wrists to tear him away from his father. "You're better than this."

"No," he said as he swallowed his tears, "I'm not."

John put a hand on Sherlock's chest and backed him a few feet away from the body. "Yes you are." He could feel Sherlock's pulse race under his palm.

Sherlock stared at the man, hardly blinking. "I thought this was what I wanted."

Silence.

John gulped. "What would you have said to him...if you could have?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know."

"Bollocks, you've been thinking of it for the last twenty years. What would you say?"

"I just...I just wanted to hear him say that he's proud."

"Proud?" John said.

Sherlock nodded like a wounded puppy. "That I wasn't worthless. I wanted to show him what I do. What I've done. And now I can't."

John felt the sharp pain of guilt.

"What do I do?" he said with a halt.

"You keep living," John said.

Sherlock looked him in disbelief. "What?"

John pointed the man dead on the table. "The biggest punishment you can give this man is to be the most successful version of yourself. Prove him wrong."

"But he-"

John sighed. "When he came up to me, he knew everything about you. Everything. He knew it all."

Sherlock blinked away a tear. "He did?"

"Yes," he said. "But now you live. You live until you're one hundred years old and impress the bloody hell out of everyone you meet. Prove this asshole wrong. That's how you win. Don't let him break you anymore."

Sherlock nodded and bit his lip to keep from crying. As he stood and let the statement wash over him, John saw the spirit of the little boy who had spent so long being so scared standing in front of him. Sherlock, in that moment, had never looked more raw and vulnerable.

"Come here," John said as he put an arm around Sherlock shoulders and brought him in close.

Sherlock lay his head on John's shoulder and shut his eyes.

"It's going to be okay," John said as he rubbed Sherlock's shoulder.

He felt his shirt grow wet from the silent tears but he didn't dare move, not that he wanted to.

"It's going to be fine. I've got you."


	32. Chapter 32

Mycroft smacked the door open with his fist and marched into the flat. Sherlock was on the couch with the television playing a comedy program at top volume. He had just taken the last of his supply and entering the upward climb of numbness until the ecstasy of tranquility. Sherlock turned his head slightly to see who had entered his room and hoped that it wasn't one of his old friends wanting a favor.

It wasn't until he heard his brother's bellow that he sat up.

"Get up!" Mycroft shouted.

Sherlock forced himself to a seated position but his entire body was loose and gangly as he struggled to sit normally. "What is it?"

Mycroft grabbed the neck of his shirt. "What are you doing with my money?"

He snapped the shirt back and Sherlock into the chair. "What are you talking about?"

Mycroft sneered. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. You think I don't know what happening? You're wasting my money."

"Wasting...I'm not wasting it."

Mycroft crossed his arm and stood firm. Sherlock knew there was no fooling his brother on a good day much less when he could hardly see straight. "You're high right now. What is wrong with you?"

"Wrong with me? Jesus, there's nothing wrong. I just needed…" Sherlock didn't have the rest of the sentence.

The look on his brother's face was one of such disappointment and sadness. "This is not what I meant for you to do with my stipend. You're supposed to be in university. Why aren't you there?"

Sherlock mumbled into his chest. "I was bored."

Mycroft threw up his hands in defeat. "Bored! Of course. Because Sherlock can't just do something easily, eh? Just get through school and you're set. Four years and you can do what you want but no. Had to drop out…"

Sherlock didn't want to look at his brother. He couldn't tell him the real reason he couldn't stay.

"You're a brilliant student. Why did you put all the work in just to drop out? I can't even fathom it. It's idiotic is what it is," Mycroft said.

"Please…" Sherlock pleaded. His head ached at the thought of going back to university. If Mycroft forced him to re-enroll he'd never survive. It nearly destroyed him the first time.

"What?" Mycroft said. "What is it? Do you want me to just turn around tell you that it is all right for you quit school behind my back? That it's fine with me that you lied for months about going to classes? Or do you want some kind of prize for using my money on drugs? Which is it?"

He looked up at Mycroft with as much sincerity as he could muster. Already the drugs had taken hold and he could feel the dizziness and numbness engulf his body. It felt like a gate had been knocked down that he so desperately needed to keep up. "Don't make me go back," he said quietly.

"Why shouldn't I?" Mycroft asked.

"I can't...don't."

Mycroft hovered over his brother. "You're going back. I paid for you attend school and you are doing it. No more using Mrs. Hudson as an excuse. She'll let you do whatever you want. She's enabling this nonsense. No more."

Sherlock put his hands to his face to cover up the emotions bubbling to the surface. "I can't do it. Don't...don't make me go back."

Mycroft sighed. "Jesus. What the bloody hell are you talking about? It's just university. You act like I'm sending you off to war."

Sherlock grabbed at his hair and yanked. "They wouldn't leave me alone. I just wanted to be alone."

"Who?" Mycroft said. "Who wouldn't leave you alone?"

The images of the boys in his dorm swirled around in his mind. It was flashes of their faces and snippets of their laughter as they echoed in his subconscious. "The boys. They wouldn't leave me alone. I just…"

Mycroft took a step forward and kneeled in front of Sherlock. "Calm down."

Sherlock shook his head. "Don't make me…"

"Stop this. You're acting like a child."

Sherlock pulled his hands away from his face and looked at his brother. He was dressed in a pristine suit with a ironed red necktie. Everything about him was polished and prim, not a hair out of place. He scowled with such indignation that it immediately infuriated Sherlock. Out of his better judgement, Sherlock dug in his heels. "I know you don't care, but you could at least pretend."

"You must be joking," Mycroft said. "I give you two hundred pounds a week. How is that not caring?"

Sherlock laughed. "Well it took you nearly a year to realize that I had quit school. Real attentive, eh?"

"You're an adult," Mycroft said. "What am I supposed to do?"

Sherlock clenched his fists. "I went to school for you. I stayed there so you would be happy and you didn't care. The boys in my dormitory would sneak into my room each night and steal my things. They'd stand there and mock me to my face as I got my meals. They'd knock over my books as I went to class. I never had a moment of peace. Not one moment so forgive me if I wished you'd at least ask."

"And you would have told me? You say that everything is going fine. Do you want me to hold a knife to your throat until you talk? I mean seriously, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked his brother with such weariness. "A knife to my throat? Is that what you think of me?"

Mycroft stood, flustered. "That's not what I meant."

"You hardly asked. I call and you're always busy."

"Well I am," Mycroft said. "I'm working."

"So you say."

Mycroft huffed in place. "You have to finish your university work somehow. Figure it out."

"Not now," he said. "I'm not ready."

"Ready? Bloody hell. You're fine. Just enroll somewhere else."

Sherlock felt weary just thinking about it. "Just stop. Can't you leave me be for one minute?"

Mycroft scoffed. "Yes, I already did and see what's become of you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You don't understand. You never will."

"Of course. Is this going to be how the rest of our lives will play out? Sherlock playing victim while I have to take complete responsibility for it all? You can't separate me from father can you?"

"Separate? Of course I can. I'm not insane," Sherlock said.

"Then don't blame me for your shortcomings."

He wanted to scream at his brother at the top of his lungs. "My shortcomings? Did he teach you that?"

"Now come on."

Sherlock pounded the cushion with his fist. "Get out of my home."

Mycroft gestured around him. "This is not your home. She's giving you this out of pity. You don't deserve it…"

Sherlock felt himself grow tense as his brother spoke. "Stop…" he whispered.

"You can do better than this. Stop with the pity."

Sherlock shook his head. "You're no better…"

"Pardon?"

He looked his brother dead in the eye. "You're no better than him."

Mycroft's face fell and then quickly contorted into a mask of fury. His fists balled up at his side as he took a step forward. Under his suit, Mycroft's arms shook as adrenaline and rage took control. "How dare you," he growled as he raised his arm up over his head. Sherlock put his hands up to shield himself from the inevitable blow.

"Mycroft!"

Sherlock peered between his fingers to see Mrs. Hudson in the doorway with horror on her face.

Mycroft stood, paused mid-motion.

"How could you?" she said with fear in her voice.

Mycroft let his arm fall to his side but Sherlock didn't dare let his guard down. He'd learned that lesson the hard way.

"Get out of here," she said.

Mycroft bowed his head. "I'm sorry."

"Now!" she shouted.

Sherlock had never heard Mrs. Hudson raise her voice and it was alarming to hear the anger that dwelled inside of her.

Mycroft turned around to face her. All Sherlock could see were her eyes as they looked Mycroft with such disappointment.

"He's your brother," she said. "How dare you."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

She shook her head. "Out."

He didn't say a word. Mycroft walked past her with his head buried against his chest.

Sherlock stayed as he was, his body still ready for the attack. A part of him couldn't believe that Mycroft would have raised his hand but, in reality, he wasn't surprised.

"I'm so sorry," Mrs. Hudson said as she stayed at the door.

He didn't know what to say.

"You're safe. He won't come back here, all right?"

He nodded.

For now they needed space.

They'd both been through so much. They needed distance.

Mycroft got the call from John and he got to the hospital as fast as he could. John sounded unnerved which struck him as odd from a man who had seen so much and dealt with far worse than Sherlock. But there was no sidestepping when it came to his brother. Sherlock problems required immediate response. He cancelled all of his meetings and raced over.

As he walked into the morgue he was greeted with John standing by the doorway with his arms folded tight against his chest. His jaw was clenched and his eyes darted back towards the side of the room as he spoke.

"Where is he?"

John pointed to the wall perpendicular to the doorway. "He's been here nearly an hour. I can't get him upstairs."

Mycroft peered around John at his brother huddled on the ground. "Why is he down here?"

He couldn't imagine what John had been thinking. As a doctor he must have known what this would do. As a soldier, as a victim, as a damaged soul, he couldn't fathom why John would do this to Sherlock. It seemed almost cruel. He couldn't believe that his brother was in the same room as their father, especially in his current state. Mycroft bit his tongue to keep from shouting.

"He wanted to say goodbye," John said. "It was a bad idea...I know that now."

Mycroft shook his head. "How is he?"

John sighed. "He won't talk to me. He won't leave but he won't say why."

He had seen his brother like this before but it had been years. This was never his strong suit. Mrs. Hudson was always the one that could swoop in and make everything better while he stood back and watched her work her magic. He felt his heart pound in his chest. "Did you call security?" he said.

John raised an eyebrow. "You think I should?"

Immediately he regretted it. "No," he said. "That would make it worse."

"Yeah," John said. "I'm just...I don't know what to do."

Mycroft looked out at his brother. He looked so small and lost against the wall. It was the same boy that sat so alone and somber for all those hours while Mycroft tried to pretend that everything was going fine. Nothing had changed, not really.

He had to make things right.

At least, he had to try.

"Let me talk to him," Mycroft said.


	33. Chapter 33

He made the decision to visit the moment he got out of the hospital after the trial. No one could know. Everyone would have thought he was insane and maybe he was. That wasn't the point. He had something to say. Now that his father was locked away and he was finally no longer under his threat and his control there was safety in telling the truth. Finally he could tell his father what he thought of him.

The first time that he tried to visit it took an hour just to build up the courage to get in the cab. The driver sat, idled in the penitentiary parking lot for nearly half an hour while Sherlock got the strength to step out of the car. He fiddled with the speech that he'd spent the entire night writing. He'd practiced it a dozen times on the ride over just to make sure he didn't trip up and stammer. Nothing would be worse than to finally get the chance to express himself only to stutter over every word. Nothing would his father happier than to see him fail just one more time.

Dressed in the nicest suit that Mrs. Hudson could afford, he walked into the visitor's area and waited until his father arrived for visiting hours. He sat, his legs shaking and his hands trembling but with the sternness of expression that he'd long taught himself to portray when he was the most terrified.

He was already enrolled in university and named valedictorian of his class. At his graduation he'd given a speech that had nearly brought the faculty to tears. It was in the papers. But with all that behind him, all he had was the sheet of paper with what he'd say to his father. It was his chance to make it clear that he'd moved on and was a better man because of it.

His neck ached from whipping it back and forth looking for the gaunt figure of his father to walk up to the table. Each time another inmate came by and inevitably continued on, his heart grew a little heavier. Eventually one of the guards had to come out and tell him that his father didn't care to see any visitors. Sherlock knew it was a lie. He knew that his father simply didn't want to see him.

Every Thursday from four to five in the evening he would come to the prison. He'd schedule his classes and work schedules around his Thursday visits. Each time he'd wear a suit and tie and carried the same sheet of paper until it was worn and torn. Each time he'd walk in and be greeted by the same receptionist who looked at him with such pity. It took everything within him to not let their pity consume him. What he was doing was not out of the prospect of a hopeful reunion. It was stubbornness on both end. Neither would back down. He'd come and visit until one of them finally died.

Fifteen years.

He visited every week for fifteen years.

Never once did he speak to his father. Never once did he see his face.

Mycroft sat aside his brother and awkwardly bunched his knees against his chest. The room was deathly silent except for the small gasps of breath from Sherlock as he struggled to calm himself.

He hadn't seen his brother in this state in years. All this time he'd lived in blissful ignornace that Sherlock had been repaired. It was so much easier to think that his complete lack of emotion and sentimentality was a symptom of his brilliance and not a byproduct of his trauma. In reality he was just a broken man who'd been so badly mangled that he could only function while the bits of tape and glue held together.

"You shouldn't be here," Mycroft said quietly. "You should be upstairs. Let me take you."

Sherlock shook his head. "I want to stay."

"You spent so long trying to stay away from him," Mycroft said, "why now?"

Sherlock snapped his head. "Just leave me alone."

He wanted to say goodbye as well but not with Sherlock in the room. His grief had to be held back. His pain needed to be contained as long as his brother was still within earshot. Sherlock could never know the true extent of how much Mycroft was going to miss his father. To know that would be even more of a betrayal than he already realized.

The guilt he felt ached in his gut. His father had never touched him. He had never said a cruel word or made an off-color comment to him. He had been nothing but supportive and Mycroft's childhood had been nearly pleasant. But to see Sherlock, a man so logical and reasoned sitting as a mere husk of a man made him want to scream. That wasn't what Sherlock needed right now. He needed the brother who was just as distant, just as rational,to get them through this. It was a well-worn path they'd both need to travel on.

"We've gone over this..."

Sherlock shook his head. "I know. I shouldn't be here. Just...you don't understand what I'm doing. This isn't your...area."

Mycroft felt another bolt of guilt. "I don't disparage you this. Just because it wasn't me that doesn't mean that I don't understand what happened. You're allowed your anger."

"Allowed? You're giving me permission now?" Sherlock said.

"Unbelievable," Mycroft muttered. "You can be so childish."

"I wouldn't know," SHerlock said. "Didn't get much experience in that regard."

Mycroft stifled his frustration. "What do you want? What do you want from this?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"If I could go back, I would change things. You know, right?"

Sherlock shrugged again. "Lovely sentiment...meaningless however."

"I can't change what has already happened. That is all I can do now."

Sherlock bowed his head. "You could have stopped him. Why didn't you?"

He'd waited twenty years for Sherlock to finally ask him that question. Martha had asked him dozens of times during the trial why they both hadn't done more to help Sherlock. Sure he provided money and would go to doctor's appointments when Sherlock couldn't take himself but when the fights were in full swing he was never there to stop them. Only once did he ever get in between the two of them. No, he'd let his brother fend for himself.

"I have no excuse."

"No," Sherlock said, "you don't. I would have helped you. I would have stopped him."

Mycroft sighed. "You say that but you don't understand..."

"He never did anything to you. You were blessed. Why should I need to understand your hardships?" Sherlock asked.

"He trusted me on some level," Mycroft said. "You don't know how hard I fought for you all those years. I would barricade myself at his door to keep him from going out and finding you. He listened to me. But then he'd turn right around and hurt you. It was an impossible situation."

Sherlock blinked away the tears. "This is ludicrous. I'm sitting here like a fool crying about a man that I despise..."

"Then let this be it. You said your peace and now you move on. Live your life without him in the background. You won. You get to live on and he does not."

Sherlock nodded. "You were there..."

"What are you talking about?"

"At Baker Street. I saw you back then."

"I was not..."

Sherlock smiled. "You had the flat across the street. You were dreadful at closing your blinds."

Mycroft stifled his look of surprise. "When did you notice?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Day you moved in."

"You never said anything."

"Mrs. Hudson would have made you move," Sherlock said.

And he thought he was being so clever. Two years he spent at 287 Baker Street. Yes it was a thirty minute commute to work but it was worth it. He had do to something. "I needed to keep an eye."

"I was always tempted to pop in and scare you."

"Glad you didn't."

Sherlock smiled. "I liked having you there. It was...comforting."

Mycroft felt a lump form in his throat. He hadn't thought about his Baker Street flat in years. He would spend hours with a pair of binoculars looking into the 2nd floor windows just to make sure Sherlock was still walking around. He'd call the phone just to hear his brother's voice. It killed him that he couldn't actually see him.

It was the least he could do.

"I was worried. I had to-"

Sherlock grunted as he forced himself to his feet. There was a confidence to his stance with shoulders back and his eyes piercing and strong. He put out a hand for Mycroft to grab.

As they stood in the morgue, a lifetime of conversations passed between them. All the unsaid words, all the anger and resentment seemed to fade and fall.

"What I said...I didn't mean to imply-" Sherlock began.

"I know," Mycroft said. He pointed to the body on the slab. "Let's just end it here, eh? Agreed?"

Sherlock looked over at his father and then back to his brother. With great strain his voice he spoke in slow measured words. "Yes. Let's go."

Mycroft patted his brother on the shoulder. "Yes. Let's."


	34. Chapter 34

He'd turned off the heat to make a point. Lestrade wanted his perp to suffer even if it meant he'd also have to brave the freezing cold in the car as well. Above all, this time it was going to stick. This time the kid would learn his lesson.

"You're twenty-two years old," he said with a snap. "This is enough."

Sherlock bowed his head and looked away.

"Listen to me!" he shouted. "Don't turn your bloody head."

Sherlock looked up with hooded eyes. "What?"

"You should know better. You do know better."

He nodded.

"Then why do you do this? Why are you here again?"

He didn't want to yell but this was the fifth time he'd been called to pick Sherlock in the last six months. Every time he let him off the hook because he felt pity for the boy but it never changed anything. All the kid would do is nod and agree that his behavior was unacceptable but he never changed. It was only a matter of time before this would go from annoying and immature to deadly. It was already a miracle that Sherlock hadn't overdosed yet. It wouldn't be long until he got the call and he desperately didn't want to hear the words.

"I don't know…" Sherlock said.

Lestrade banged the wheel. "You have a second chance."

Sherlock didn't move.

"You have a chance to get past all of this. Why are you wasting your life on shit like this?"

Sherlock scoffed.

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"You act like it never happened. You act like it's something that I can so easily push past. Well I can't."

"Yes," Lestrade said, "you can."

Sherlock pushed back in his seat. "Simple for you to say."

He spun around and glared at the petulant boy in the backseat. "I get it. Stop acting like such a brat. I've been there for years. I have been on your side for years. Your father was an absolute bastard but there's more to you than his own actions."

Sherlock clenched his fists. "What's the point?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "The point? Jesus, you're brilliant and you waste it on feeling sorry for yourself."

"Sorry for myself? I don't feel sorry for myself."

"You must be kidding."

Sherlock glared. "I'm just being realistic."

"You're being an idiot is what you're being."

Sherlock sunk into his seat. "Can you just take me to the station? I'm tired of this."

Lestrade started up the car and jolted it forward. "We're not going to the station."

Sherlock sighed. "Can we not this time? I can't talk to another counselor. I just...I'm so tired of it."

"No, I'm not taking you to a counselor. That's obviously useless. I'm taking you to my next scene."

Sherlock sat up a little straighter. "Why?"

"I need your help."

"You what?"

Lestrade sped through the yellow light. "I know what you can do. I see that you can outsmart half the men on the force. It's a shame to let that mind deteriorate on the street."

"I'm not...is this even allowed?" he asked.

He shrugged. Realistically, no it probably wasn't. If his boss found out then he'd probably be in big trouble but this was his last plan. Nothing worked with Sherlock. This was his last chance to save the boy's life. "Absolutely," he said. "I think you'll be a big help."

Sherlock pulled his body close. Lestrade could sense his anxiety. "But I don't know what to do."

"You'll be fine. Just follow me."

"I can't," Sherlock said in a voice nearly at a whisper.

Lestrade suddenly pulled the car over to the side and they both jolted forward. "Shut up. Just shut up."

Sherlock shut his eyes tight. "Stop."

Lestrade spun around and jabbed the boy in the shoulder. "No, you stop. I'm tired of hearing the bloody excuses. You're better than this."

Sherlock took in a sharp breath. "What if I'm not?"

"Do you think I'm doing all this because I pity you?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I don't. I don't pity you one bit. But you have to realize that it breaks my heart to see you fail because of that man. I just...I saw something bigger for you."

Sherlock looked out towards the road. "I apologize for disappointing you."

Lestrade felt the guilt gnawing at his chest. "That's not what I meant. I mean that you can be great. So come with me and be great."

"And what if I'm not?"

Lestrade shook his head. "I don't know. But I don't think we'll have to find out."

Mycroft forwent the wheelchair. Sherlock was weak but he wasn't about to be carried upstairs by his brother. They took their time walking down the hall and waited as the elevator slowly made its way to the basement. No words needed to be said. Thirty years of stress and anxiety swirled around them and Mycroft could only hope that most of that would be left behind where their father lay.

As the door to the elevator opened, John stood, his face pale.

Sherlock looked up at him in panic. "What is it?"

John grabbed his wrist and squirmed. "It's Mrs. Hudson…"

"No…" Sherlock said in a raw guttural voice. Mycroft held his elbows to keep him from falling to the floor. "What happened?"

John closed his eyes. "She's still alive, Sherlock. It's just…"

"Just what?" he said with strain in his voice. John took a step forward and Mycroft could see the tears in his eyes.

"She...there was bleeding that they didn't see in the x-rays. They have her back in surgery."

Sherlock pulled away from his brother. "Surgery. Why aren't you there?"

John went to comfort his friend but Sherlock swatted him away. "I can't. I'm not her doctor."

"I don't care," Sherlock said. "You should be there."

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, please. Be reasonable."

Sherlock snapped his head towards his brother. "Reasonable? She's dying, Mycroft. Don't you care?"

"Of course I do. But please keep your voice down," Mycroft said.

Sherlock pushed past Mycroft and began to walk down the hallway in faltering clumsy steps. He braced the wall to keep from falling. John ran up behind him and grabbed him by the arm.

"Sit down," John said.

Sherlock fell against the wall and took a stuttering breath. "John, you need to help her."

John shook his head. "I can't. I can't help her. I'm sorry."

He slid down the wall and onto the floor. "It's not fair."

"I know."

He put his head in his hands, his entire body trembling.

John gestured over to the vending machine. "You're shaking. Let me get you some water, all right?"

John got hardly a centimeter away before Sherlock reached out and grabbed the tail of his jacket. "What?"

He looked up with tears in his eyes. "Don't go. Please."

John nodded. "Of course."

He sat next to Sherlock on the floor.

"I'm here," John said. "I'm not going anywhere."


	35. Chapter 35

They sat that way for nearly an hour. Sherlock shook against John's shoulder and didn't say a word. John held his tongue. There was no use for platitudes. This wasn't the person to fill with unnecessary optimism. Sherlock was more than aware of the seriousness of the situation. Anything less than the bluntest of truths would be insulting.

When he'd found out that Mrs. Hudson had been rushed to surgery he was furious. The bleeding had to have been going on for hours and they hadn't noticed. He couldn't believe that they hadn't noticed. It made him blind with anger. The poor woman had sat in the bed for most of the afternoon and no one had done anything to help her. If she died…

He couldn't even think about it.

But now it was a possibility.

These were excellent surgeons. He knew them all. They were brilliant doctors but intelligence alone doesn't guarantee success. Mrs. Hudson was older. She wasn't in the best health even on a good day. The bleeding was extensive.

He shut his eyes to drown out the constant chatter.

John wrapped his arm around Sherlock and pulled him closer. The man had crumbled into a ball on the ground and held his arms tight against his body. There was hardly anything to him. John rubbed his arm to warm him up and stop the shaking but he was perfectly aware that it wasn't the cold that made him tremble. He was terrified.

Mycroft came and went but never tried to say anything. As gruff and strong as he wanted to aware, the older brother was just as petrified but completely unable to help. John wanted to feel for him but his mind already swam. All he could do was force a wistful smile and accept the constant cups of coffee that Mycroft brought back from his wandering around the hospital.

The nurses tried to help. They were so sweet. One, a young thing with a high blonde ponytail, wrapped Sherlock in a blanket and sat down next to him. She had such kind earnest eyes and didn't try to fill him up good cheer. She just sat and touched Sherlock so gently to make him feel less alone.

He wished he had known how much Mrs. Hudson had meant to Sherlock all these years. He had assumed it was a pleasant relationship between tenants but it had been so much more. Their history was so entwined and unique. There was no one that could fill the role that she held for him. Even John.

John wasn't a religious man but he prayed like hell. Everything. He'd give away everything to let her pull through.

He heard Sherlock whimper and John pulled him even tighter. "It's all right, mate. I've got you."

In moments like this he saw the real man behind the bravado. It was just a boy. A damaged boy who wanted to be noticed and loved. All bark and no bite. And that boy needed his mother back.

John held back the tears as he saw the surgeon in the distance.

He patted Sherlock on the arm. "They're here."

Sherlock looked up just a tick with tired puffy eyes.

"Let me see…"

John walked the twenty feet to the surgeon but it felt like a mile.

Timothy had been his classmate. They had known each other for almost twenty years. Yet, Timothy looked at John like they were strangers. It made John's heart beat even harder. "What happened?"

Timothy looked up with an exhausted but relieved expression.

"She made it through," he said with a smile.

John could have kissed him. "Yeah?"

"She's fine. John...it's a bloody miracle."

John hugged his friend so hard he thought his arms might break. "Thank you," he said through tears.

He ran back to Sherlock and shook his friend excitedly. "She's okay," he said.

Sherlock looked over with a distrustful expression. "Yeah?"

"She's out of surgery. She's all right."

Sherlock smiled. An honest to goodness smile. "Can we see her?"


	36. Chapter 36

Present Day

He stayed for almost two hours. John had never seen him so still and so patient before. It took most of that time just for her to be aware of where she was and what had happened to her. But Sherlock held her hand and reassured her so softly that everything was all right and that she was safe. It was at the hour and a half mark that all the pieces fell together and she remembered who the man next to her was and the smile on her face lit up the room.

"Sherlock," she cooed as he gripped her hand even tighter, "you're here."

He smiled back. "Of course."

"My boy…" she said as she tried to touch his cheek but her IV's caught on the bed railing.

He calmed her arm and placed it gently back on the bed. "Just relax."

"Relax," she said with a laugh. "Remember I used to tell you that."

He nodded. "I didn't listen, eh?"

"Not a bit. Always on the move."

"I wanted to…" he said and then looked towards John. His head bowed, embarrassed.

"What?" she said.

He shrugged. "Make you proud," he said quietly.

Her eyebrow raised. "No…" she said with a smirk.

"What?"

"Make me proud? Why?"

He tilted his head like a confused puppy. "Why wouldn't I?"

She looked over at John who had occupied a spot in the corner. He hadn't spoken the entire time. It felt inappropriate. But, as a doctor, he couldn't leave Sherlock alone. He was already falling apart at the seams. It didn't seem right. But, in that moment, he wasn't a doctor. He was a friend and he understood Sherlock completely.

"But I was just-" she began.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "You were just nothing. Don't you understand that?"

Her lips curled. "Darling, you're going to make me cry."

He rubbed her shoulder. "Oh don't do that. Makes your cheeks all ruddy."

She laughed. "Much better."

He gave her a kiss on the forehead. "Thank you."

"Oh," she said as she lifted her hand to her eye, "see what you've done." She sniffed back a tear.

He sat back in his chair. "Well I do mean it."

"Of course you do," she said as she wiped away the tears from her face. "You were a good boy."

He scoffed. "I feel Mycroft may disagree."

She leaned closer to him and beckoned him closer.

"What?" he asked.

Her eyes sparkled as she spoke. "I did always like you best."

Sherlock sat back in surprise. "I shall tell him straight away." He feigned getting out of his seat before Martha pawed at the space his arm used to occupy.

"Don't you dare!" she said.

He winked at her. "I wouldn't give him the satisfaction."

She smiled as she reached back for his hand. He slipped in gently around hers and held tight in silence. The silence that only people who had been through it all could have-the silence of complete and utter connection.

John stepped from the room to give them a moment before he had to wheel Sherlock back to his room. He'd been awake for nearly a day and it was wearing hard on his body. He lumbered to the pop machine down the hallway with the change ready in his head. As he pushed the button for a Coke he heard a voice from behind him.

"John?"

It was quiet but intensely familiar.

He spun around to see Mycroft hunched over in a chair.

"How do you find me?" John asked as he popped the can open.

Mycroft shrugged. "You don't move all that fast. Also not terribly observant, are you?"

John rolled his eyes. "Nice seeing you too, Mycroft. I'll be on my way-"

Mycroft patted the seat next to him. "Just a moment of your time."

He wasn't in the mood. "Not right now. Later?"

"Now."

He felt defeated. There was no use saying no to Mycroft. It was always a "yes", it just a matter of him waiting his victim out until they gave up.

John fell into the seat. "What is it?"

Mycroft pulled an envelope out of his jacket and placed it in front of John's face. "Take this."

He didn't understand the gesture and just stared at the paper in front of him. "What is it?"

Mycroft shook it. "Just take it."

John grabbed it carefully and set it on his lap. He was afraid to open it. He was afraid of what would be inside. After the last few days he couldn't take anymore surprises.

As soon as he opened the flap, he saw the edge of a check. "No," he said as he closed the envelope.

Mycroft looked at him in shock. "No? No to what?"

John shook the paper. "To this. Why are you giving me your money?"

Mycroft said the next sentence so bluntly and with so little emotion that John thought he was joking. He couldn't believe the words coming out the man's mouth.

"So you'll stay."

John lifted the envelope and tore it in half. He handed both halves back to Mycroft. "I'm not going anywhere."

"But after all you saw…" he said.

John shook his head. "Doesn't matter. It changes nothing."

He stammered over his words and looked at John in such disbelief. "I don't understand. You know…"

John reached over and grabbed the envelope and ripped it half again and again until the paper was no more than oversized confetti. "Not to be crass, Mycroft, but I don't give a shit about your childhood. I mean...that came out wrong. I care as a human being but it doesn't affect how I see Sherlock. Or you for that matter. You have to believe that."

He took in a sharp breath. "And you promise you'll stay?"

"Of course…"

He held back the lump in his throat but his voice betrayed him. "Because I can't...I can't be there all the time. And he's…"

John smiled and patted Mycroft on the shoulder. "Don't be getting all soft on me now."

Mycroft tilted his head back to rescue the escaping tears from his eyes. "You're a good man, John."

John nodded diplomatically as he handed Mycroft back the remnants of his check. "You're not so bad yourself."

February 2001

Sherlock knelt in front of a body that lay sprawled on a kitchen floor. The young man flitted around the corpse with the grace of a ballet dancer. With just a small hand magnifier and a pair of tweezers he had already generated a theory that half a dozen trained detectives hadn't even thought of.

Lestrade sat back and waited for the judgement of his colleagues to roll in but the comments never came. At first they thought he was, at best, insane for bringing in a man off the street to investigate on fresh crime scenes. Sherlock was still in the throes of his recovery and on a good day would come across as distant and aloof. On a bad day, in the heat of his withdrawals, he could be downright maniacal. But it took him solving the perplexing double homicide on Helton Avenue that got his men on board.

It had been over a year since he'd had a report of Sherlock being picked up drug possession and the boy had promised that he'd been clean since last February. In the last year he'd seen a tremendous change in Sherlock. He'd gained weight, he was eating, he wore nice clothes instead of the baggy nonsense he'd gotten in the habiting of wearing. What was best was the fire in his eyes. What used to be dead and lifeless was now vibrant. He had passion. Finally his intellect was focused. It had a purpose.

As they walked out of the residence and towards their respective cars, Lestrade beckoned Sherlock over to his car.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked as they got to the front door.

Lestrade smiled. He'd been racking his brain for weeks about what to get the boy for his sober anniversary. Nothing felt right. He'd been to every store, every shop and returned each thing he'd bought. It had to be perfect.

"I got you something."

Sherlock scowled. "Why?"

"Oh stop with the face. It's for your one-year."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Oh that seems unnecessary."

"Nonsense," Lestrade said as he dug through the seat to grab the gift bag. "It's a big deal. It should be celebrated."

Sherlock stuck his hands out. "I don't want anything."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Take it. I insist."

The bag sat in Lestrade's outstretched hands for almost a minute before Sherlock finally took it from him in a huff. "I don't enjoy gifts," he said as he stood with the bag in his hands.

Lestrade laughed. "Who doesn't enjoy gifts? Don't be difficult. Just open it."

Sherlock looked at the bag and then back at Lestrade. "I'll open it at home."

He didn't want to overanalyze the moment. He didn't want to imagine the number of times that Sherlock had been given something by his father only to have it taken it away later. He didn't want to think of the manipulative game of giving something to a child and then beating them when they didn't appreciate enough.

Lestrade took the bag back. "Then I'll open it for you."

Sherlock crossed his arms but there was a hint of excitement on his face.

He pulled out the gift and held it by the eyeholes as he showed it off to Sherlock.

"It's a skull…" Sherlock said with confusion.

Lestrade smiled. "Replica, down the the teeny bits. It's for anatomy students but I thought you'd like it. After all the crimes and such...seemed cool, eh?"

There was a blankness to Sherlock's face as he examined the gift. Lestrade tried to not panic as he attempted to read Sherlock's expression. It was then that the boy grabbed it from him and brought the skull's eyes to his own.

"Very cool," he said as he spun it around in front of him.

"Oh thank God," Lestrade said as he breathed a sigh of relief.

Sherlock lowered the skull and quickly lost the giddy smile. "Thank you," he said quietly.

Lestrade went to pat Sherlock on the arm but the boy instinctively backed away. He balled his hand and nodded. Gently he put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "You earned it."

Sherlock's eyes immediately went to the ground. "No…"

"Eh," Lestrade said. "No more of this. You did. You earned every ounce of the respect you've been getting."

He shrugged.

"You're bloody brilliant," Lestrade said as he shook the boy. "Don't you ever forget that."

Even as he struggled to not make eye contact, Lestrade saw a smile cross the boy's face. It was going to take time but he saw a bright future. This was just the beginning.

April 2005

Jasper Hudson had committed murder. That was undeniable. The entire state of Florida knew that he had killed his coworker, Edward Peterson, and the man's wife/Jasper's lover, Amanda Peterson, in cold blood but no one could find him.

That is until Sherlock stepped off the plane on to the streets of Miami. It took him all of half a day to track the man down to an apartment complex twenty miles from downtown.

He hadn't told Mrs. Hudson why he was going on holiday. All she knew was that he'd be gone for a few days and not to bother calling. It didn't seem important to inform her that he'd been working closely with the Miami PD and was ready to drag her ex-husband in on murder charges. He knew it would only worry her.

The apartments were rundown and certainly befitting of a man of Jasper's caliber. He'd been sitting in front all afternoon and had seen the man walk inside. Sherlock slowly got out of the rental car and made the walk to the building.

He rested his shaking hand on the barrel of the gun in his pocket. It was there mostly to calm his nerves, not to be used. Nothing would be more heartbreaking to Mrs. Hudson then to get so close seeing her husband get justice only to have him die before the trial. No, he was to hold back.

Only as a last resort.

For the entire day he'd been rehearsing what he would say. It was just lure him out and confirm his identity. From there he could elicit a confession. That was what they needed. There was no evidence linking him to the crime except that it made sense. He knew that Jasper had done it, it was just a matter of proving it.

The police were just down the street and they were listening to every word. The moment they had the go-ahead, they'd raid the house. A part of him felt safe knowing they were ready to strike but his hands still trembled.

He walked right through the unlocked door. Jasper never locked his door in London and clearly hadn't gotten in the habit in America. The apartment was sweltering and humid. He could hear the murmuring coming from upstairs. From the pauses in the conversation, he could tell Jasper was on the phone.

Alone. His suspect was alone.

Sherlock crept up the stairs making barely a peep. As he got to the top step he took a deep breath and tried to remember the speech he'd written on the plane. It was a flowing text complete with dramatic pauses and indignant accusations. But, in that moment, he forgot every word. All he could do was force himself not to throw up from fear.

On three he'd go in the room.

One.

Two.

He shut his eyes and thought of Mrs. Hudson. All she'd done. All she'd been through.

That was motivation enough.

Three.

He strode into the room and slammed the open door against the wall. Jasper spun around, surprised.

"Well, shit," he said with a bemused smile.

Sherlock cocked his head. "I know what you did. I know you killed them."

He laughed. "I did nothing of the sort. Jesus, did you come all this way just to do that? Mm, what a waste of money."

He let his finger glide over the gun. "Get on the ground."

Jasper shook his head. "No, I'm good here. Off you go."

Sherlock felt the panic rise through his body. This wasn't working the way he thought. "I'm not going anywhere. You tell them what you did or I'll…"

"You'll what?"

He pulled out the gun. It felt foreign in his hands and he fumbled to hold it correctly.

"Seriously? Sherlock, please. You look like an idiot."

He felt his blood boil. He snarled as he spoke. "Get on your knees."

Jasper jabbed his finger in Sherlock's direction. "You know I never quite understood Martha's fascination with you. I always thought your father was right. You were a little shit…"

He didn't even have time to stop himself. He reeled his arm back and hit Jasper in the head with the butt of the gun. The man fell to the ground and cradled the side of his skull.

"What the hell was that?"

Sherlock kicked him in the gut. "You tell me what you did!" he shouted as he pointed the gun at Jasper's head.

"You're insane. That little bitch really screwed you up."

He kicked him again. And again. He kicked Jasper until leg ached.

The man rolled on the carpet cradling his abdomen and squeaking words of agony.

Sherlock felt the rage come in waves and he wanted so badly to rip the man limb from limb. He felt such unbridled anger. It took everything in him to stop. Instead he kneeled over Jasper's huddled body and put the gun right to his skull.

"Did you kill the Petersons?"

Jasper looked up with red pained eyes and nodded.

He nodded.

Sherlock couldn't believe it.

"Say it. Say it out loud. Say, 'I killed them'"

Jasper nodded. "I killed them," he said in a series of grunts.

Within minutes the sirens echoed in front of the house and the lights shone through the windows. Sherlock hid the gun away as the police took Jasper from the ground and outside in handcuffs. As crass as it seemed, he couldn't hide his smile.

Justice.

For both of them.

Present Day

Two weeks later and Mrs. Hudson was finally well enough to go home. John sat back in great amusement as Sherlock tinkered around her flat making sure everything looked perfect for her arrival. He'd taken an entire night to glue the lamp back together and spent another day replacing the frames so they would be the exact ones that were broken. It all needed to be immaculate when she got back.

John let him get her by himself at his insistence. He knew better than to argue and gave him time to cook the biscuits and pie and that Sherlock had spent the night preparing. The recipe was overly complicated, down the exact number of grains of baking soda, so John improvised. He hoped Sherlock's excitement would let him off the hook for making the biscuits with a cup of sugar instead of the "seventeen and three-quarter tablespoons" that Sherlock had prescribed.

With the platter all set up, he waited.

Just as he was about to cheat and eat one himself, the door opened.

"We're here!" Sherlock shouted.

John leapt to his feet and went to take Mrs. Hudson's coat.

"It smells lovely!" she said.

"Been cooking," John said with a shrug.

She playfully slapped him on the arm. "You didn't…"

"Yeah. It's a little welcome home gift."

Sherlock pointed towards the flat. "You used my recipes?"

"Of course…" John said.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at Sherlock . "Oh goodness. You didn't give him your recipes did you?"

"What?"

She smiled back at John. "He was always so technical...took all the fun out of it."

"But you must say they tasted better," he said as he stripped himself of his jacket.

She raised an eyebrow. "I suppose."

John laughed as he put an arm around her. "Don't worry. I improvised a bit."

"Oh good…" Sherlock bemoaned behind them.

They walked inside to the table filled with desserts and tea all set out. "Oh John, it looks beautiful. Thank you." She walked over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"Least I could do," he said as he went to pour the tea.

Sherlock strode over the chair and pulled it out for her. "At least you made the tea with the correct amount of cinnamon."

His tea instruction called for a pipette and a scale. "Not in the least. Tastes the same."

Sherlock gritted his teeth.

Mrs. Hudson rubbed his arm. "Oh darling, just sit. You're going to give yourself another fit. Enjoy it."

He sat in a huff. "I'll do my best."

She sipped at her tea. "It tastes wonderful."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Oh goodness. Just try it."

He pushed the cup away.

"Some things never change," she said with a smile.

John took the plate from the counter and placed a slice of pie on it with a fork sticking out the top. He placed in front of Sherlock. "Try it."

"I think I'll pass."

Mrs. Hudson moved herself closer. "Just a bite."

He looked over at her and his face softened.

"Just one?" she asked.

His gaze snapped back to John. "One bite."

As he grabbed the fork and jabbed it into the pie, John caught Mrs. Hudson's face as she watched Sherlock. It was such an odd dynamic and he couldn't quite place it but it felt so supremely deep that nothing either of them could do would ever break their bond. She smiled in the face of his stubbornness and delighted in the small victories. It was such unbridled love. As he swallowed the pie and she reached over and gave him a hug.

"There you go," she said with a smile.

"Vile," he said as he pushed it away.

"Sherlock!" she said with a snap.

He looked at her with the same indignant expression. "What?"

She didn't have to say a word. Just a look. Just a flick of the eyebrow. His shoulders slumped and he looked over at John.

"I apologize…"

John leaned in. "You what?" he said with a cheeky grin.

Sherlock took another bite. "You heard me."

John grabbed his own cup of tea and sipped it. He almost had to spit it out.

Disgusting.

Sherlock was right.

Dammit.

He didn't dare say a word. John simply smiled and sipped on the vile concoction.

"I'm glad you're home," John said.

She looked at her flat with such wonderment and then back at the men in the room. "Me too," she said. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."


End file.
